


Golden Snitch

by cinderelsa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hogwarts, Ravenclaw, Theatre club, canon who? i tried, i love ollie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinderelsa/pseuds/cinderelsa
Summary: Eliza is Oliver's neighbor. It's not always easy, growing up next to Oliver Wood. It's especially hard when you think you're falling in love with him.





	1. Chapter 1

Oliver Wood and I have known each other since we were three months old and one week old, respectively. We've seen each other in quite compromising positions - halfway out a window, upside down on a broom. Always keeping our pact of not embarrassing the other.

When you're neighbors with someone for so long, you learn some secrets.

Oliver knows a lot about my habit of dancing to the Weird Sisters in nothing but underwear (which, admittedly, sucks ass). On the contrary, I know about how he likes to give himself energetic pep talks in the mirror. He also likes turning on the Muggle radio and pretending that they're talking to him. As always, we keep it quiet; save for when we pass each other in the hallways at school.

Our mums forced us together. My mum believed that early exposure to the opposite sex would help with social integration while his mum just thought he needed to stop exploring the most dangerous way to sit on a broom. What better way than to shove two children together and force them to play, right? Not quite.

The first time I was mentally aware enough to try to even remember Oliver's name, I thought the familiar face would sit silently with me and read a book or two. Instead, he tried to use all of my stories as leg weights to keep me on the floor while he zipped around my room. Not that he was doing anything in particular, because young Oliver had a one-track mindset. I didn't think to cry, though. Instead, I sat there with my arms crossed, stewing in my adolescent rage.

Young me wasn't too bright either. She didn't realize that just kicking off the books was an option.

By the time our mothers had come back for us, Oliver had fallen asleep on my bed. I stayed exactly where he put me, glaring at him. My mum gaped at me.

I said nothing. The one thing I'd gotten out of the incredibly boring playdate was that it might be better to keep myself on Oliver Wood's good side, even though he wasn't exactly on mine.

My mum set me down for a nap right next to Oliver on my bed. I almost protested at having to share with someone as enthusiastic as him, but I was only four. My eyes closed as soon as I hit the pillow.

Oliver became a big part of my life. I was with him more than any other kid, due to the extreme proximity. Our parents always smiled and reminded us that it was a good thing, since it meant we'd both have at least one friend when we started school.

I guess I'd agree. While my general opinion of him improved, though, his unique personality stayed the same.

Our second playdate was in his backyard. He got himself stuck in a tree, and I tried my best to find a ladder - anything, really - so that he could get down. It didn't work, but we waited patiently until a parent came. He got onto a better page in vengeful little Eliza's book.

I refused to be outside with him alone for a long while after that incident. Not that he minded. From then on, he brought his Quidditch Weekly magazines and sports books everywhere. He was like a wizarding sports library, but he always had his thumbs opening up to the Quidditch chapters. Oliver isn't much different now, though he isn't quite committed to the library anymore.

I don't know what got Oliver started with Quidditch. I think it was his father, who somehow got access to all new broom prototypes and releases. On Oliver's sixth birthday, I watched him unwrap the newest Nimbus model and fly around his backyard, stopping briefly to wave at me. Even at six, he looked at home on the broom. The wind blew through his hair freely, his smile bright and wide.

Not to say that there weren't any mishaps. I still remember the day he flew straight into my room and crashed into the door. My mum had to take him go St. Mungo's immediately, with his parents out for work. The broken door left its mark on Oliver's shoulder, in the form of a deep cut. Oliver cried, then cheered, then asked me about how cool it was. I stood to the side with my mouth wide open.

Oliver has been an unbelievably difficult person for as long as I can remember. From the book mishap to the shattered door, I've found him quite weird for forever. Not to say that I'm not weird, of course, with my strange connection with fashion and books.

Upon thinking about it again, I actually don't think I'm all that strange.

Oliver's affinity for Quidditch kept me at arm's length from him while growing up. I thought it was cool, watching from a chair as he zipped and zoomed, but it kept us distanced. In my mind, I had no idea how to connect with the boy I'd known since infancy. I enjoyed occasionally taking joyrides but was in no way interested enough to keep up an athletic hobby. Everything went back to a sport that I knew little about, other than my own father's favorite team. He was a bit overwhelming, like a centaur who wanted nothing but to party. He used to complain about his haircut and I liked giving him advice on that; our conversations usually didn't get much deeper. Still - one was normally the only company around for the other.

At seven years old, our parents began leaving us with each other more often. Our only supervision would be my older brother, who was normally off in another room with a friend. On some occasions, Elliott would sit with Oliver and me and just talk about things happening at Hogwarts. I think I liked these times the most. I enjoyed being able to call Elliott my suave sibling (even though his many trips down the stairs would disagree) and Oliver would happily discuss Quidditch in a way that didn't have me scrambling to understand.

Oliver and I never argued. We just spoke in such disjointed conversations that it felt like we were talking to ourselves. When you're a kid, there's not much to talk about. You can't connect well unless you have similar interests, and our interests were simply too extreme to find any medium. I found it hard to talk new styles and trends without him looking longingly at his broom while he probably felt the same when he talked to me. In lots of ways, our lack of flowing conversation came from my awkwardness and our total lack of knowledge on how to try. One thing I did notice was his way of trying to be helpful but his words being anything but.

Oliver continued to crash into things and spend an unthinkable amount of time outside, up until right before our letters from Hogwarts came. In the three year gap, he and I had learned how to make family dinners only a bit friendlier and he had broken my chair, my dresser and my thumb. I was more upset about the dresser than the thumb. Oliver tried to console me, but all he said was that when he broke his thumb, he couldn't fly for a week. When I gave him a funny look, he took it upon himself to craft another apology - a batch of brownies he took from his mum. I think we started to consider each other friends then. I started paying more attention to everything he said, observing him closely when the topic at hand wasn't at hand. I often joked about the height that gave me an edge over him. We stayed somewhat close, but more familiar than anything.

When we got our letters, our mums took us to Diagon Alley together. He and I stared at every other young person there, wondering what it'd be like to finally start doing something other than sitting in a backyard. Out of growing respect for the other, we followed dutifully whenever each wanted to duck into a store of their choice. It was interesting to be in the broom store. He gaped at all the options in front of him, excitedly pointing out any Quidditch players that he recognized to me. He began talking about his plan for his first year, right there. It began with Quidditch tryouts and ended with winning the Quidditch Cup. Oliver never spoke with anything less than total determination, and this passing moment as eleven year olds was no different. I believed him. It was hard not to.

We split up briefly, and in one store I ran into a girl named Alysia. I complimented the journal and book she was holding, and we introduced ourselves. It was weird talking to someone not named Oliver, but also refreshing.

I walked out of the store with a stack of both textbooks and leisure books. Just a bit later, Oliver came up to me with a bunch of Quidditch supplies that he promised he would put to good use later. Our mums took us to get our wands together, and he walked with a large smile while I almost fell apart from nerves. I was still trying to cope with the fact that my life was about to begin. We stood in awe inside Ollivander's, and I was entranced by the process.

It really felt like a new chapter when we left Ollivander's, boxed wands in hand.

Oliver surprised me then. He asked me to make a deal with him, one that neither of us could ever break. He said that since we were probably going to do things that none of our parents would approve of, we had to at least try to look out for each other. You know, because we knew where the other lived.

I was taken aback by how far ahead and how deeply Oliver had been thinking, but agreed.

For first and second year, the pact wasn't so necessary. We were so swept up in the vastness of the world ahead that we didn't talk often. We were even sorted into different houses (not a complete surprise) and made our own friends. No one knew that the increasingly popular Oliver Wood was friendly Eliza Wilson's neighbor. He played extremely hard, his passion obviously relentless. I admired him from the sidelines for it, except for when he went unconscious during his first game. I went to him in person for that one. I taught myself more about Quidditch and started learning what I could. We grew into our personalities, became more enjoyable versions of our younger selves. This, of course, meant that Oliver became frustratingly undeterred in everything he did. In our Second Year Cup-determing match, Gryffindor lost with the capture of the Snitch. He laid on the pitch in despair for half an hour.

Things started to change, right after our second year. I'd become more aware of his popularity with everyone else. Most were surprised by his intense drive (I would often grumble a challenge to try growing up with the guy) and others were attracted to the athlete in him. In our first and second years, any time we saw each other at home was spent helping the other. I would often be his Quidditch guinea pig, and he helped me improve my flying in return. The summer before third year, I would mend his uniform and clothes as long as he let me use him as a reference model.

Oliver and I actually started to talk more - the most since a post-Elliott conversation from when we were younger. He started to come over more often, even though he got invitations by owl for other things almost every day. I watched as he collected letter after letter, only to write out a short reply and show up in my kitchen a little later. Elliott would come home sometimes and tell me about how both of us were starting to grow up, followed by Elliott looking up conversation points for Oliver's Quidditch rants while trying to relate them to his newest role.

At the end of our prepubescence, Oliver and I grew to be more comfortable talking about things. Our mums and dads were overjoyed. We weren't sure exactly why, but had no reason to protest. We started doing dumber things around each other. Oliver would sometimes get lost in thought about a waking up at five o'clock for training and subsequently crash into a doorframe. I would often trip over my own feet.

Oliver spent lots of time talking about what he'd do as Quidditch Captain, running through different drills and strategies with me often. These conversations happened so late at night that I'd drift off occasionally, and he'd tell me about my snoring or sleep-talking habits.

The summer was good to us. I came out of it definitely being able to call him a friend, even with all of his quirks. We showed up together to Hogsmeade Station. I was met with questions and comments of all kinds about Oliver, only to bury myself in my sketchbook. There, I finished a Quidditch uniform I'd started to design for my new, old-feeling friend.

Third year was definitely different. It felt less like a collection of kids and more like an ocean of them, all maturing people with social lives more in mind. I started hearing Oliver's name from our year more often; I never failed to mention this to him in passing. It'd turn him red every time, and I enjoyed seeing him let down his steely resolve every once in a while.

With every year, Oliver and I had considerable distance. Only after third year began did it become more lonely and noticeable. I started turning to mention something new about Quidditch to him, only to be met with either silence or an odd look. I guess we were those friends who knew each other from class but didn't talk much elsewhere, and I wasn't quite used to it.

On Christmas holiday, Oliver started coming over more often. He and Elliott would play who knows how many games of one-on-one Quidditch (which I was totally oblivious to the rules of) before he and I would sit together and watch the Muggle television together. Since it was apparently necessary to mention American football every so often, Oliver would get a kick out of comparing the sport to the one he lived for.

I mentioned the girls in the Ravenclaw dormitory who surprisingly lost it over him, and he joked about how good it was that I was the level headed one out of them. I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, but his eyes stayed stuck on the screen. He told me that he thought captain was going to be his next year, and I smiled and congratulated him. He took his eyes off of the American Muggle show and smiled at me, big and wide. It was probably a different look from the fiercely competitive Gryffindor that he was at school, but I liked it.

Despite not talking often (different friends, different groups), Oliver and I eased into our conversations. I found myself sending back retorts with no trouble at all, and we talked as if we'd never stopped.

At one point, mistletoe floated over our heads. It was the one my mom charmed to stay until the two under it kissed, so I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed up. He followed my gaze, and smiled lopsidedly.

"Look, it's mistletoe."

"Yeah, it is."

"So.." His eyes darted from my lips to the mistletoe and back to the television. None of it went unnoticed. He swallowed. "You know, Puddlemere-" I take it all in, not used to a jumbled Oliver.

I spoke, saying something more daring than normal fourteen year old Eliza would ever say. "What, are you too afraid to kiss me, Wood?" It came out like a challenge, and I think I meant it.

Oliver's lips showed the barest hint of a smile and he placed his hand on my shoulder with a sudden bout of determination, leaning in to give me my first kiss. Let's face it - Oliver Wood never backed down from a challenge. He did, however, back away when Elliott walked in and gaped at us.

After that Christmas, life went on. We greeted each other in the halls, and had our few classes together. We settled into our routines. Elliott wrote every once in a while, checking up on me and sometimes Ollie. Then summer came. On the train back home, Oliver bounded into my compartment, taking my friends by surprise. "Eliza, I got captain!"

He pulled me into a hug, and I congratulated him. My friends whispered, but I ignored them.

When we got back to our houses, Oliver immediately came over to start planning practices. He claimed that he thought clearer in my company, so we sat there quietly as we scribbled.

Oliver got Quidditch intense. He came over everyday, but never stopped worrying about practices or the Cup. We spent hours outside everyday; he relied on me to charm the Quaffles for him so that their movements would imitate the fastest-armed Chaser at school. I tried to reassure him that I had complete faith in him, but I could tell he wouldn't believe me until he saw it himself. In the afternoons, we'd sit in his room as he drew on huge boards, comparing Charlie Weasley's training regime to a possible new one. He'd stop every so often, and ask me about my brother's budding acting career.

"My future is in Quidditch," he said. "I know it."

I knew it too. Of course, I still know it.

Time went on, until suddenly, it was my birthday. Today.

The first thing I do when I wake up is turn on the Weird Sisters, and as per usual I'm not wearing anything but undergarments. It's how I get comfortable during hot summer nights, and it proves to be foolproof.

I do a silly dance around my room, celebrating the unfelt but acknowledged milestone in my life. Halfway through the third song, the door opens. Oliver stands there, watching me sing with abandon. I freeze. When he realizes my state of undress he turns around with the speed a Firebolt. Sadly, it's not the first time he's walked in on me doing this.

"Happy birthday?"

My face is probably flaming red, more at his reaction than him actually seeing me. "Thank you." I slip on a dress and give Oliver the okay to turn around again.

"I've always loved the Weird Sisters," he says. I roll my eyes at him. "I liked that jumping thing you did. I could hear it from downstairs." I tell him it can't possibly be as good as the jig he does when he's trying to sneak out his window, and he chuckles.

Oliver hands me a small bag, and I ask him if I can open it. He gives me a small smile, and the light in his eyes makes them seem so clear. I take my gift out of the bag.

"It's amazing," I say, eyes wide. "How did you get this?"

I stare in complete awe at the necklace in the box, a replica of one of my designs. The sunlight makes rainbows dance across it, and I can hardly believe it.

He smiles. "I know someone," he says, nonchalantly. He gives me a small shrug and I hug him. Oliver's gotten a lot taller than me, and his arms wrap over my shoulders.

I realize that I've stopped associating the word neighbor with him. He's come to mean much more to me than that. Even with all of his time spent on Quidditch, in these near-fifteen years he's grown on me.

"Thanks for spending a morning with me."

"If a Quidditch break were necessary, I'd use it on you."

"How sweet." I meet his eyes when I say this and laugh. I know that he's probably going mad with longing for Quidditch, so I sit down with him and pull out a Quidditch book he gave to me once as a last-minute birthday gift. "Remember this? Twelfth birthday."

Oliver runs his thumb over the cover, back and forth. He stares at it. "I do."

"You loved it. Your name is still written inside. You didn't have to give it to me." I thought it was a less-than-perfect gift at first, but it took me a year to realize what it really meant. In that time, I'd read it cover to cover. "So as my congratulations to you, for getting Quidditch captain, here is your book." Oliver looks straight into my eyes, the brown suddenly darker than I remember. I try to resist the very immature urge to kiss him. I shake it off. "Tell me about it. Being captain."

"Nothing's really happened yet, though."

"I'm still interested. Tell me what you want to do, what you will do." I know he wants to practice, but a selfish part of me wants to keep him there and have a wonderful birthday with him. I've heard before about the fire in his eyes when he plays, which I've seen since we were little, but it's intensified.

Oliver lays down on my bed, staring at the ceiling. "I'm going to get Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup. I'm going to do it, and when I do then I'll know everything was worth it. I'm going to do everything I can." I lay down next to him, trying to paint the picture in his head. It never occurred to me that Oliver would be anything but successful. "I've started taking notes on the other teams, you know."

The corners of my mouth lift slightly. He doesn't say it, but I know he'll probably threaten the team with life or death if he has to. And everything Quidditch is an urgent matter to him.

"Maybe I'll try out for the Ravenclaw team this year," I say, mostly to freak him out.

He nearly jumps. "Tyson'll use you against me," Oliver grumbles. I feel an embarrassing smugness at this, knowing that nothing can distract Oliver Wood when it comes to Quidditch.

I turn onto my side, met by Oliver's side profile. His strong jawline and perfect nose, on top of his gorgeous hair and eyes. It's not fair, how utterly handsome he is, even at fifteen. It's only one of his charms; the others include his interesting sense of humor and unbreakable resolve.

I'm about to invite him to stay, for when my friends come over. Then I realize that he probably has something planned with the remaining Quidditch team. "When the team is done practicing, you should all come over for some dinner and cake."

"Really? Thank you."

"You were always invited. The others are a happy addition."

"The Weasleys are going to drive you mad," he chuckles. "Mighty fine Beaters, though. They're not on the team yet, but I trust Charlie Weasley's opinion."

"So I've heard."

Oliver raises an eyebrow at me. "Really?" It's not out of condescension, and more out of surprise that I've been paying attention.

"I had to learn more about Quidditch. You know, I've kind of known the Gryffindor Captain for my whole life."

He smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so. The two of us go downstairs together and greet my mum, who gives me a large kiss on the cheek. Elliott congratulates Oliver on his captaincy and gives me a hug. Elliott's gift is a Muggle and Wizard costuming book that the costume designer for his current show currently uses. Inside is a note from my brother, and I smile so wide my cheeks hurt. Mum asks Oliver to stay for breakfast. Elliott chimes in, saying that he hasn't seen Oliver in so long that it'd be nice to have the time.

"Thank you, Mrs. Wilson, but I've got an intense practice scheduled today. You can never be too prepared." He promises to come around for my birthday dinner, though.

Mum smiles and whispers, "He hasn't changed at all." Elliott tries to hold back his laugh, but it comes out as a snort.

As Oliver leaves, my friends begin to Floo in. He gives them a brief wave, and they stare at me, dumbfounded.

Amelie gestures at the door that Oliver's just closed. "Oliver Wood?"

"You've known we're friends."

Jake chuckles. "Most of his friends are Quidditch equipment. A bit admirable, really."

"It is, isn't it?"

My whole group of friends all give each other a look, one that I can't discern the meaning of. Elliott gives me a squeeze on the shoulder.

When dinner comes, the door opens and in walks two lanky redheads and Oliver himself. One of the twins' mouth falls open. "You didn't say we were eating at Eliza Wilson's house."

"Well, Fred, here we are. Thanks for having us, Mrs. Wilson."

"It's no problem at all," Mum says, as Oliver jumps in to help her with the food. He and Elliott are pulling food out of the oven and I'm still putting food on the table with the rest of my friends. "You're always welcome here."

Oliver takes the spot next to mine, and we enjoy our dinner.

"Happy birthday, again, Eliza."


	2. Quidditch & Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's fourth year now!!!

With fourth year comes an ever-frantic Oliver. I really don't see him around, and the twins often tell me about his near-hellish practice schedule. Any time I do see him is class related or for a quick sketch, and I slow down when reaching out to make plans. I shrink into my skeleton of a new routine instead, one without the boisterous Gryffindors who made my day. I start thinking long and hard about how nice it'd be to have him around again, and my mind wanders off to last Christmas. I remember the mistletoe and blush, wondering what he could possibly be doing right now. Then I remember that it's morning on a Sunday, and they're probably down by the pitch.

I think about how much I miss having him around, but stop myself. "You're barely friends," I say to myself. Besides, I see him in Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures. The necklace I'm wearing suddenly feels heavier. The blankets sitting on top of me get too hot to bear, and I kick them off. I remember sitting in my room with Oliver, the best place to sit and just be together; I miss the scattered Quidditch notes all over my bed and his scrunched brow, the one he got whenever he was having trouble figuring out a certain practice. I miss trying to discern what made a good player a good player, and I miss the chuckles Oliver would give me at every half-absentminded murmur.

Amelie is reading, but she puts her book down and looks at me. "You okay, Liza?"

"I'm okay."

"You know I'm smarter than to just take that answer," Amelie says. She's never been one for subtlety, and she knows me well enough to call me out on my bullshit. The truth is that I'm trying to fool myself more than her because I don't understand why I miss him so much. "Are you okay?" Her near-obsidian colored hair is perfectly plaited as always, and her demeanor is what I'd describe as never out of place either.

I realize that I haven't really been too social for the past few weeks, caught up in my own thoughts or schoolwork and fruitless fashion brainstorms. Most of my human interaction has been through letters with Elliot, who's insisting that I should join Theatre Club. My laziness and lack of socializing has more to do with my own complacency than anything else, but Oliver's absence stands out. "I don't know, really. I should be okay." I don't know what else to say. I eye my sketchbook at the foot of my bed, where it's stayed virtually untouched. I know that if I open it right now, the jump in the dates in the corner would surprise me.

Amelie's expression softens, and she reminds to get breakfast. She slips out of her bed and gets changed, and then I'm alone again. I grab my book tentatively, unsure of how to approach what I used to do in every available minute that I had. I open it, starting from the very beginning. The paper feels like silk against my fingers, and my eyes practically drink up the designs that I have down. I feel creatively renewed, like there's a new straightness to my shoulders and a sudden brightness in the room. I get to the sketch I have of Oliver in a Quidditch uniform, and I smile.

I try to start a new design, but my hand freezes. I don't really have any ideas, and it hurts my head whenever I try to make aimless designs. There's no real order to them, no way to create a coded legend on the side. For the first time in weeks, I set my sketchbook aside with the promise of picking it up again soon.

I shake off my sense of longing, knowing that there's more than just Oliver and the Gryffindor Quidditch team at Hogwarts. There's the library, Hogsmeade, my friends. It's strange without Oliver around, but I know that he's just putting his all into winning the Cup. The season is close to starting, and he can't afford to miss a beat.

In the Common Room, I bump into Wesley Tyson, the current Quidditch captain. Wesley gives me a warm, characteristically melty smile and a good morning; it makes me smile back.

"Hey there, Liza. Haven't seen you around much."

"Oh, yeah. You know, things.. have been.. happening.." I struggle to find an answer to his statement, and fumble my way through the sentence.

Wesley chuckles, and I realize he's wearing his Quidditch uniform. "You don't owe me an explanation, Eliza. Just was missing your jokes and emotional disputes to Zeno's paradox." My shoulders relax at this, and I give him a tiny smile. Wesley towers over me, but it's not uncomfortable. He's taller than Oliver, by at least half a head. Wesley is taller than most of my friends, actually. He was the first Second Year that I met after I was Sorted, big grin and all. Now, he's a tall, glasses-toting Fifth Year (one who's really quite popular). "Headed to the Great Hall?"

Like a gentleman, Wesley lets me go ahead of him. He walks with me, and I can tell that he's walking slowly so that I don't have to try and keep up. "I am, but you look like you're ready for practice."

Wesley looks down at his uniform, as if he didn't remember he was wearing it. His blond hair is falling into his eyes, and he doesn't move to brush it away. "Oh, yeah. I was going to have the team go down to the pitch for training, but Flint and Wood are down there having it out. I wasn't about to add Ravenclaw to the mix."

"Unsurprising," I say under my breath. Wesley catches it and laughs.

"It's fine. I changed our time. You know, it's a shame you didn't try out for the team."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Really? How so?"

"Wood mentioned something about you and your hidden Chaser skills. Says you have a more-than-decent arm."

I didn't realize Oliver had mentioned anything about our summer practices. They hadn't seemed like a big deal to me. Honestly, I thought I was doing badly and that Oliver was just making what he could out of it. More surprisingly, though, "Oliver Wood gave you advice?"

Wesley shrugs. "Maybe it's you. You two are friends, right?" When I nod, he nudges me. "You're a good influence."

I roll my eyes. I'm not sure how much I can influence Oliver Wood, one of the most self-driven people I know. Wesley and I get to the Great Hall, and he invites me to watch the practice later. I thank him, knowing that I really don't have anything to do. Since I've been so withdrawn lately, I haven't made plans with anyone to do anything. We sit down together, across from Jake, Amelie, Nicholas, Sara and a few Wesley's friends, who are also dressed in their uniforms.

Sara is writing frantically on a scroll, and I look curiously at Nicholas. Nicholas peeks at what she's writing, still chewing on his bite of pancake. "She hasn't finished Snape's assignment, apparently."

"Even I finished that one," Jake says. Jake is probably one of the most laidback students in Ravenclaw, simply because he never has any trouble catching up. He can usually be found either on the Quidditch pitch, Quidditch uniform pulled up past his elbows, or in the library, nonchalantly flipping through a book. Sara, on the other hand, just overwhelms herself. It's not uncommon for her to be borrowing ink pots in random places, like the Three Broomsticks. I've taken to keeping one on hand for her.

Sara looks up occasionally to correct herself on various spellings (they're never wrong, anyway), but continues scribbling away. From what I can see, she has another six inches to write.

My friends and I talk aimlessly. We go from ice cream in winter to the process of a hatstall.

I finish my breakfast, but everyone else is just sitting there. I excuse myself. I walk past the long, familiar tables and all the familiar faces. I head in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, figuring that I might as well catch Oliver as he's leaving. Just to say hi, of course. And maybe to say hi to the twins, too.

When I get there, I can hear some back and forth. By just guessing, I can tell that it's Marcus Flint and Oliver. I see them, both teams behind their captains in some intimidating Quidditch poses. I think - I don't know how the intimidation thing works.

"Look, Flint, I don't know what the problem is here." Oliver's words come out clear and loud, the way they do when he gets frustrated. Oliver rarely loses his composure, and dealing with Flint always puts him on the edge. In the mere three weeks since we've started school, the Slytherin Captain and my dear old friend have fostered a rivalry as big as the Whomping Willow. I find the biggest difference between the two to be their auras. Marcus Flint is a bit of an aggressor - he likes starting things. Oliver isn't the biggest fan of fighting.

At the back of the Gryffindor group is Charlie Weasley. He'd been Captain in his sixth year, but he handed it off to Oliver a year early. He stands calm and his arms are folded, broomstick held up by the crook in his elbow. I know enough about him to know that he's generous, and an amazing Seeker. His brothers are in front of him, and they spot me. I used to have a lot of trouble telling the two apart, but I've picked up on the small differences. Both of them give me a small wave, but Fred mouths, "We haven't started practice yet."

I'm not sure what Oliver and Marcus could possibly be talking about, to have to take nearly an hour.

I look over to the Slytherin team, and I make eye contact with a blond boy, who's standing next to Adrian Pucey. I know Adrian Pucey from when Professor McGonagall tried to get him some help in Transfiguration, but the blond boy is a different story - I think I've seen him around before, but at the same time, I'm clueless. To be honest, he's cute. He winks at me, and I roll my eyes. I'm not going to be won over just like that.

There's a long period of silence between the two captains, and Oliver breaks it. "We don't have time to waste and argue with you, Flint. I booked the pitch, and you don't have a note. Maybe we can pick this up some other time." The syllables are hard.

Blond Boy nudges Marcus with his elbow and makes a move of starting to leave. Marcus turns with a humph and on their way out, the blond boy waves at me. I wave back. Oliver looks in my direction, and he walks over. His shoulders relax.

"Eliza! I haven't seen you much lately."

"That seems to be the general consensus on my whereabouts for the past few weeks."

"It's nice to have you around now," Oliver says. "We haven't even begun training though. Darned Flint."

"Oh, yeah. Wesley told me you two were arguing about something."

"When we got down here, the Slytherin team was practicing. We only have two weeks left before our match, we can't afford him taking our time."

I nod in understanding. Oliver still has a little line running across his forehead from the conversation with Marcus. "Who.. who was that blond kid?"

"Higgs?"

"I guess."

"He's their seeker. Not too bad. Never stepped out of line."

The last name isn't much to go off of, but it's enough to pique my curiosity. Oliver asks me to stay for practice.

"If I hang around you any longer, people might think that I'm a Gryffindor groupie or something," I joke.

"Not the worst thing to be called."

"It is when you're a Ravenclaw," I retort. "Wesley Tyson is a gem and I can't hurt him."

"Tyson has one on me again," Oliver mutters. I give him an odd look, and the twins snicker. They start swinging their bats, somewhat impatiently. Charlie calls out to Oliver. "I'm going to go start practice; you should really stay if you can."

Fred says, "You should really take it up, Eliza. Oliver doesn't let just anyone watch a Gryffindor practice. In most cases, he'd call you a spy."

"I would not!" He's a little flustered, because the truth is that he would.

"I'll stay," I say. "The quiet will probably help me draw." George recommends the far stands to me, saying that's where they're least likely to hit Bludgers. I give him a grateful look.

Oliver gives me a smile and the team jogs over to the Quidditch kit. I hear Oliver yelling out something about the beginning of an era, and how death is the only acceptable excuse for not putting their all into the game. I pay it no mind. I take a seat in the stands, only looking up every so often to see someone zoom past. I focus mostly on my sketch paper, taking out my set of Muggle art supplies. I lay them out around me, and try to select a color palette.

I see Oliver at the Goals, having already finished his laps. He's watching the team carefully, and Charlie Weasley pulls up next to him. Oliver calls out instructions to the twins and to the Chasers. I reach for a rich, vibrant red, and find a warm golden yellow to go along with it. I remember the trip that Oliver and I took to Muggle London to buy the art supplies, and his uncharacteristic reluctance. I brought him to see his first Muggle movie that day - The Little Mermaid. When we walked out, he told me he had no idea that even Muggles could come up with that kind of magic. He didn't have any Quidditch references to go along with it, and it felt different. I haven't told him, but I plan on going again during Christmas break.

For the next hour and a half, I focus on the paper in front of me. They're dress robes, leaning on the Muggle gown side of appearances. It's big and the accents are ornate, twisting in leaflike patterns up and down the bodice. I start adding ink, but I hear a whoosh in front of me. I look up, and Oliver is there.

He's on his broom, hovering just over the stand and peering at what I'm working on. His robe is open over his jeans and sweater, blowing slightly in the gentle breeze. "Not a Gryffindor groupie, eh?"

I stick my tongue out at him. "Dress robes are fun."

"For you, maybe. My dress robes are all some outlandish color that I wouldn't be caught dead wearing."

"You look pretty good in the eggplant colored ones," I say. Oliver shakes his head but looks amused. He leans in closer, but his hair is still wet. A few droplets fall onto the page. The ink starts to run.

Oliver sighs. "I've gotta stop doing that."

I chuckle, waving my wand over the drawing to dry it. "No harm done." I look down onto the pitch and see that the rest of the team is starting to leave. "Has it been that long?"

Oliver says something about how it's a shame that I missed a spectacular Weasley hit, and I let him talk about it instead of telling him that I ended up catching it. "Wouldya like a ride down?"

"That'd be fantastic." I put my supplies into my bag, and shrink it until it fits onto my wrist. Oliver comes closer so that I can get on safely, and I wrap my arms around him. His shoulders are broad, and I settle comfortably onto the broom. His robes smell like his shampoo.

"You know, you've gotta teach me that charm sometime. I could bring my broom with me everywhere." He's talking about the shrinking one, which my mom spent almost a dozen afternoons trying to show me. It was hard to pick up, especially because I couldn't do it myself. I tell him that of course, I'll do it, and he hums in response. Oliver descends slowly, and my head rests on his back. I nearly close my eyes and go to sleep, but we reach the ground. I dismount first.

He picks up his Quidditch bag, which has been sitting near the entrance to the pitch. We walk together, and pass by the Ravenclaw team. Wesley asks if I'm still sticking around, but I tell him that I think Oliver and I have catching up to do instead. He waves us goodbye.

"Have you done your Transfiguration homework?" he says. His quill sits in front of him, untouched and quite sad. Oliver has skipped over his schoolwork in favor of practice again, and I sit next to him in the library while he tries to recall Professor McGonagall's words.

"Yes, Oliver, I have." I try to help, but he's only half-listening and is muttering to himself about how to practice for the Slytherin match. "Isn't McGonagall going to go mad if you don't get this done?"

"I know," he groans. "Just having a little recall trouble, is all."

It's not all surprising. He's been practicing his pep speeches for the team since his second year (they don't do a great job at pepping. I personally wouldn't try to get anyone's spirits up with guarantees of daily practices, win or lose) , and he probably knows those like the back of his hand. How to change a hedgehog into a pincushion, however, was all but lost on him.

"I can help," I insist, placing a gentle hand onto Oliver's hand, which is twisting his quill back and forth. It doesn't take much explanation for Oliver to remember exactly what to write down, seeing as he's smart, just singularly focused (and he definitely doesn't spend his time focusing on Transfiguration). He's like the waves on a beach, moving to and fro with a certain purpose. Oliver does it well, even though it often gets him stuck in the library with a cemented frown on his face.

Oliver takes maybe a half an hour to finish the assignment and the two of us leave the library just as lunch starts. Together, we walk into the Great Hall and I can't help smiling at the sight of stacks of grilled sandwiches, all piled high in perfect towers. I feel a rush of warmth when Oliver squeezes my wrist in goodbye, and I wave him away. I head to the Ravenclaw table, which is farthest from the door this year. Slytherin is the table next to us. I don't pay much attention while I'm walking, seeing as Sunday lunches drag on for hours and no real crowd is in the Great Hall at any given time. Instead, I focus on the large bricks laid down as the floor; I rake my eyes over every scuff and mark, taking my sweet time until I bump into a shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm so-" I stop short when I see who's standing in front of me. It's Higgs, the blond Slytherin Seeker who Oliver didn't think to give me the first name of. He has a playful glint in his eyes that I can't tell the reasoning behind, and the feeling that he has one up on me has me scrambling. "I'm so clumsy," I finish awkwardly, the silence already having done its part before I went and added more.

"No worries, it was my fault." He smiles, bright and charming. He holds out a hand, and I shake it once. His grip lingers, though. "I don't think I've ever caught your name."

"Eliza Wilson."

"I'm Terence. Or, if Wood over there's told you about me, Higgs." I look up at him, and his smile hasn't left his face. "Hope he's only told you good things."

"What makes you think I asked Oliver about you?"

"Wishful thinking."

I laugh. "Well, nice to meet you, Higgs." I emphasize his last name, and his smile widens into a grin. I look over to my friends and see that Amelie's already put a sandwich onto a plate for me. I turn back to Terence. "Adieu."

"Adieu," he repeats, flashing me that pretty smile of his before walking back to the Slytherin table with a hand running through his hair. I see Marcus Flint glance at me before saying something to Terence, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to know what he said.

I take a seat next to Jake, and realize that my robes are completely unkempt. They're nowhere near Jake's rarely-straightened robes, but just enough to be comparable. Nicholas is leaning on his hand, his bowl of soup nearly empty. He looks at me.

"Who was that?"

Amelie pushes the plate over to me, and I mouth a thank you. She waves it off and gives me the same quizzical expression.

"His name is Terence," I say simply. I can tell that Amelie wants to ask more, but Jake can tell I don't have much more to say. He effectively turns the conversation to a Muggle novel that he let me borrow. I squeeze his hand in gratitude and he squeezes back.

I eat my sandwich with an unusual fervor, appreciating the simplicity of lunch food more than ever before. When I'm done with my lunch, I start to head out to the Common Room, to kill time and read before dinner. I'm caught by Oliver, who's somehow managed to sneak up behind me.

"Eliza!"

I turn around, brushing my hair out of my eyes. Oliver's robes are undone again, and he doesn't have his Quidditch bag with him. "Hey, Oliver."

"It's still early, where are you headed?"

"The common room," I reply.

"Oh, so nowhere important."

I look at him, trying to figure out where this is going. I figure that he's about to ask me to go to the pitch. "I guess not. Why?"

"Would you mind heading out to the lake with me?"

It's a pleasant surprise and change of scenery. The gentle breeze from the morning has dwindled into basically nothing, but the sun has started to settle too. Oliver's laid out his robes so that we can sit comfortably. The water glimmers beautifully in the sunlight, like a polished jewel, and there are a few other clusters of students enjoying the view too.

Oliver's been talking about his concerns about the upcoming season. The list seems endless and the grievances seem miniscule, but I've grown to understand what all of them put together could mean to Oliver. Fred is hitting at the top of the Bludger rather than the middle, Angelina is hesitating when she throws, Charlie isn't considering a professional Quidditch career. The last one isn't much of a problem for now, but Oliver is obviously disappointed that the talented Seeker isn't continuing on.

I sketch the castle and the lake as he talks, making sure to include him in the picture. I'd distract him, but that normally only causes him to stress out more. It's only a matter of time before he starts keeping the team places before class, going on and on about various opponents. Oliver is talking about the Slytherin team's Porskoff Ploy, but sidetracks when he sees my pencil moving.

"That's pretty," he says.

"Thanks," I say. Oliver's hair looks almost golden brown against the sunlight, and I know that the haircut is a result of a conversation we had ages ago about the best haircut for a Keeper. My eyes move to his eyes, eyelashes framing them in a way that I've always been jealous of. I glance at his lips and my breath catches.

It hits me. It hits me so hard, it's as if a Bludger's lodged itself in my chest.

I like him. It's nothing like the time I realized that I thought of him as a friend. The feeling crashes down on me, so much more intense than when he kissed me. My heart pounds, and I feel like I'm in a cold sweat. Despite the feelings I've just realized for Oliver, I don't like it. I don't want to like him. I don't want my heart to race around him, I don't want to catch myself staring at him.

The realization makes me want to squirm while somehow making me want to kiss him all at the same time. It's a pretty interesting character development on my part; I remember writing him in one of my first diary entries, complaining about how all he ever wanted to do was listen to Quidditch commentary on the radio. Now, I listen with as almost as much enthusiasm as him.

Oliver breaks me out of my thoughts. "Thank you, Liza." I turn to him with a quizzical look. He clears his throat, looking up, down, at the other students, but not at me. "You know, for keeping me grounded when I need to be."

"Oh, right. What are neighbors for?" I laugh, somewhat awkwardly. I turn to the water. I hear him say something under his breath, but I'm not sure what. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, and his brows are furrowed. "Maybe we should head back in," I suggest. I stand up and give Oliver a hand after he nods. I don't want to let go, and my grip lingers for a second or two before I realize. I let his hand go abruptly.

Oliver and I walk back in, and he voices his concerns about the upcoming match and his distrust for Marcus Flint. I try to reassure him, but it only rubs salt in the wound - how am I supposed to fall in love with someone so close, yet so far away?

He and I make it to the stairs, and I tell him I'll see him in Astronomy.

"You aren't going to the Great Hall for dinner?"

"Not hungry," I tell him. "I'll see you tonight," I repeat, and I walk up the stairs in the direction of Ravenclaw Tower. I try not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how to cut this story up into chapters because i'm writing it all on one huge document lol oh no! i hope this chapter was ok! thanks for reading


	3. Realizations

Around eight, Robert Hilliard comes up with a covered plate. He gives it to me, and when I open it I can see that it's a meat pie and salad.

"I was coming up," Robert says, "and Amelie sent me up with this. Thought it was a good idea."

I almost say that it wasn't necessary, but my stomach growls loudly. He's unfazed, typical of his serious demeanor. "Thank you, Robert."

"No worries," Robert says. "Take care of yourself, okay?" I nod and he smiles before heading up the stairs to the dorms.

I finish my plate pretty quickly, keeping myself busy by keeping a picture book open in front of me. It's a bit like having a substitute for Muggle movies. When I finally convince myself to head down to the Great Hall and return the plate, Jake is heading up the stairs. He offers to come with me.

Our walk to the Great Hall is mostly quiet. It's a comfortable one, and we normally spend our silences deep in thought, as if in preparation for a future conversation.

"Jake?"

"Yes?"

"I think I like Oliver."

Jake gives me a funny look, one that I wouldn't expect from him. "Is this a recent conclusion?" I'm not sure why he asks this, but I respond with a yes. "I thought you've had a crush on him since Second Year."

"Oh."

"I never said anything," he says. "One thing I know not to do is assume I've always got the right answers. I didn't know if I was just seeing something that wasn't there."

"Oh." Students are leaving the Great Hall all around us, and I set the plate on a stack of emptied ones before we follow the crowd. "Does this mean everything changes with me and him?"

Jake shakes his head. "Doesn't have to, Eliza. Just do what feels right to you."

I crack a smile at his advice, and he squeezes my hand. Almost like a reflex, I squeeze back. Jake never fails to ease the knots in my stomach.

We're back in the Common Room, and Jake ruffles my hair and gives me a brief hug. "Night, Jake."

"G'night, Liza."

I fall asleep as soon as I hit my bed. I dream of grass stains, sunny skies and the whiz of brooms flying by.

Hours later, Oliver stands next to me in Astronomy. I know that Dumbledore must have decided to give Astronomy a midnight slot right after the weekend, but on many occasions, I find it to be cruel and unusual punishment. I find myself grumbling when Amelie and Sara (who wasn't sleeping anyway) drag me out of bed, but stop my complaints at the top of the Astronomy tower, where a beautiful sea of stars glimmers above.

Professor Sinistra tells us to pay close attention to the stars and our assignment is to start taking notes on their brightness and size to distinguish ages and distance.

I take a look at the stars; they all shine brilliantly and I accidentally get a bit caught up in identifying stars in constellations. A streak of light dances across the canvas in front of us, and I gasp. Oliver looks over at me instantly, and I grab his hand.

"A shooting star," I say, entranced by the sight. Oliver tightens his grip on my hand before taking a look for himself, lost in the view, and the feeling makes my chest warm.

I nearly jump when Professor Sinistra comes up from behind us, and I drop his hand. She hasn't noticed that, though. "Fantastic sight, Ms. Wilson. Keep note that this is the result of a meteoroid coming towards our Earth-"

I scribble down what the Professor is saying, cheeks hot. I can't bring myself to look at Oliver for the rest of the class, a bit afraid of where my feelings for him are going. When the hour is over, I pack up quickly and say my goodbyes.

Oliver tells me to wait, but I put my hands on his shoulders firmly. "Goodnight. I'll see you in class on Tuesday, don't worry." I give him a tight squeeze and slip out of the door amongst the group of Ravenclaws. Oliver barely has the time to respond. He manages a quiet goodbye, before I'm out and on the stairs.

Jake and I walk together, and he whispers that he saw it. I ask him if he's talking about the meteor, but he shakes his head. "Holding hands," he says simply, concern etched in his forehead.

"That was impulse," I respond. I don't know what to say other than this. We're back in the Common Room by now and Amelie is waiting for me by Rowena Ravenclaw's statue, holding back her yawns. "We'll talk about this sometime later," I say to Jake. "I promise."

He sighs in concession. "Goodnight." He waves at Amelie and me, and waits for us to head up before going up to his own bed - as per usual.

On Tuesday, in Care of Magical Creatures, we're introduced to unicorns. They're beautiful and graceful, but I can tell that Oliver is nervous around them. He's afraid of not being gentle enough, and I remind him that there is not one harmful bone in his body. He smiles gratefully and steps closer. He tells me to come closer too, but I shake my head.

"You're not nervous though," he says. "I mean, compared to the time Fred hit a Bludger in your direction-"

I roll my eyes. "Please don't remind me." Oliver tugs on my arm gently, and we're met by a unicorn. It approaches me slowly, and I'm in awe of its outward purity. I touch it gently, and it bows its head. Oliver smiles.

Oh, how smitten I am with that smile. Stop it!

Care of Magical Creatures is the last class that I have with Oliver each week. As we walk back to the castle together, I ask him if he'd like to go to Hogsmeade with me.

He seems conflicted. "I would love to, I swear," he starts. I can see where it's heading. "But I have the team scheduled for flying practice all weekend." I groan in disappointment and Oliver gives me an apologetic hug. I take in the subtle scent of his cinnamon-vanilla shampoo. He feels like fall, and he smells like the feeling of exhilaration that everyone gets during the beginning of the school year. I always remind him to get this scent, and I'm always grateful that he agrees with how nice it is.

I reluctantly let go, and for a second I think he hesitates too. We keep walking, quietly. The air blankets us in a slight chill; leaves are blowing along and falling everywhere I look. We pass by a group of third years wrapped in scarves, on their way to Care of Magical Creatures. Now, we're at the castle.

"I'm going to get going - don't want to be late to Arithmancy," I say.

Oliver nods. "Right, I forget that you take that class."

"I'll- I'll see you around."

I start walking by myself, but Oliver catches up to me. I look at him the way he looks at my Arithmancy number charts.

"Let me walk you," he offers. "To keep you company." Oliver knows I'm perfectly fine being alone for the five minute walk to Professor Vector's classroom, but he's insisting anyway. I'm pretty sure he has practice though, if I remember my last conversation with the twins correctly. It's unlike Oliver to be here with me, and not on the pitch with his broom.

"George and Fred mentioned-"

"Right, right. But the whole team is always at least ten minutes late anyway. I'll still have time to yell at them," he jokes, albeit a bit flatly. I hide a laugh, knowing it's not far off from the truth.

I thank him when we get to my class, and Oliver says goodbye but breaks into a small jog as he leaves. I'm starting to wonder if I should be worried about him; he's been quite different lately.

I take my normal seat, in between Robert and Nicholas. Robert gives me a nod and Nicholas smiles. He passes me a square of coconut ice. "Was that Oliver?" Nicholas asks. I nod, still chewing. It's as sweet as Nicholas - which is probably why Nicholas always has them on him. "He walked you? That was really nice of him," Nicholas says sincerely.

"Yeah, it really was." I'm somewhat glad that Nicholas is in this class and not Amelie, knowing that she'd try to figure out what's going on. I haven't even told her about my crush, and I'm eons away from figuring out how to explain Oliver and our relationship, if one could even call it that.

After Arithmancy, Sara and I are reading through a book of unseemingly useful spells in our Common Room. We have a habit of trying to be the first people to read any new books that appear on the bookshelves, and I love sitting on the couch and flipping through the pages. Dinner hits, and we put the book back into the "Sara and Eliza corner" of the bookshelf by the Girls' Dorm stairs.

The two of us walk together, and I take in Hogwarts for the umpteenth time. There's nothing quite like the smell of the old books and the feel of the sunshine in the Ravenclaw Common Room after a long summer. The high ceilings, scattered art supplies and House colors across the many bookcases feel like a breath of fresh air for every Ravenclaw, serving as either a much-needed brain booster or creative juicer. There aren't many portraits, but the ones who sit in the Common Room are typically reading or giving students riddles and help.

Sara and I walk down the stairs, making sure to leap when necessary. I'm not the biggest fan of the moving staircases, especially since I've been on the cusp of danger so many times by now. It's one thing to have so many people grabbing your arm before you go straight off the last step, but another to have the portraits laugh at you. I've lost count of how many portraits have called me the clumsy girl.

"Always stuck in your mind, you are," one had chastised.

It's fine, I guess. There aren't going to be too many moving staircases when I'm doing whatever it is I'm meant for. (I'm leaning toward fashion designer, or maybe fashion editor for a nice magazine. Preferably not Witch Weekly - they're absolutely taken with Stage Actor Elliot Wilson, and won't leave my brother well enough alone. Or me, sometimes.)

A handful of ghosts walk up the stairs and float through the halls, all following the students on their way to dinner. Inside the Great Hall, the candles are floating in place the way they always have. I remember Elliot telling me how much I'd love them, knowing that I had some sort of weakness for unique lighting sources.

When Sara and I get to the Great Hall, I see two figures with orangey-red hair standing up at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Even among a hall full of students, I know who they are immediately. I tell Sara to go ahead, and the twins and I head over to the side.

"Is something wrong?" I ask. The two are bouncing on their feet, unable to stay still. They watch Sara leave, her long, chestnut brown hair swaying slightly. They turn back to me.

Fred says, "We think something's gone wrong with Oliver." I can only really tell the two apart from their posture (Fred always stands straighter) and a slight smattering of freckles that goes across George's nose. It baffled them when I first started identifying them without trouble.

I look around the Gryffindor table and don't see Oliver anywhere. My stomach twists and I push my dark hair out of my face in panic. "What? Where is he?"

Fred waves my question away. I take it to mean that Oliver's in no actual trouble and my shoulders relax. "He was late to practice!"

"Well, actually-"

"We were late, and Oliver was just starting to come out of the team locker room."

"Isn't that strange? Never once in our times being late-"

"-and that's many-"

I interrupt the two. "Wait, Fred, what exactly does this have to do with me?"

Fred (and I'm positive it's Fred) gapes. "We think it's you!"

George nudges his brother slightly, crease in his brow. "What Fred means is that we see something."

I fold my arms, genuinely curious about what they're talking about. "What exactly do you see?"

Oliver walks into the Great Hall with Percy Weasley and a few other Gryffindors, and I wave at him. He starts moving closer to us, and the twins fall silent. "Hey, Liza," Oliver says. He nods at the twins. "Weasleys."

I can tell that the twins aren't going to keep talking. "Hey, Ollie. I was just... talking to the twins about.." I look around the Great Hall, and spot Amelie and Jake. "Amelie."

"Amelie? Wong?"

"That's the one!" Fred says. George gives me a smile and half-hearted wave before the two say something about Percy and a daily lecture.

"Okay," Oliver says, obviously unsure of what Amelie could've possibly done to make her a topic of interest. He smiles anyway. "We should probably go sit down," he says. I agree with him, and there's a brief silence in which the two of us look into each other's eyes. I'm captivated by how golden brown they look and how envy-worthy his lashes are. I'm absolutely captured by how Oliver can somehow make a jumper and pants look so good under a robe. I blame it on the part of my brain that decided to tell me I have a crush on this boy.

I break eye contact.

"Oh, well, I'm- I'm going to go sit down! Jake probably saved me a plate, or something," I ramble. I make random hand gestures, pointing at everything from the candles to Oliver's feet. I turn and walk away quickly, almost tripping on my robes. I turn back, and Oliver's obviously hiding a smile. He calls out to me to be careful. "I will, thanks, Ollie."

I make it back to the Ravenclaw table without any other mishaps. Jake has actually saved me a plate, and I can't thank him and Amelie enough for always keeping me fed. Jake's hair is longer than normal, and I can tell he's not used to it because he keeps running his fingers over the back of his head. He says his mum normally gives him haircuts, but she'd been in America with his dad the week before school started. I swallow my bite of roast beef.

"Jake, would you like a haircut?"

Jake is eating his mashed potatoes, but takes a swig of water when he hears me. He seems caught off guard. "Are you really offering?" I'm offering because Jake can easily guide me through how he likes his hair cut, and I've got a steadier hand than he would doing it on his own. Last time he tried, he begged all of us to find him a hair growth remedy.

"Why not? I give Oliver haircuts sometimes," I say. Jake looks over to the Gryffindor table and nods in approval when he sees Oliver's hair.

"That'd be nice, thank you." Jake smiles at his plate, hands no longer touching his dark hair.

Nicholas says something about Theatre Club. "Are you joining this year, Eliza?"

"My brother wants me to," I say. The letters haven't stopped coming. Elliott says it's a good way for me to keep working on designs. "I actually might."

"I think you'll have fun," Amelie says.

I'm not sure what to expect, joining Theatre Club. Elliott says it's a good time, but Elliott also left Hogwarts three years ago. I'm fairly sure the current president of Theatre Club is a Gryffindor in Wesley's Year. I figure it wouldn't hurt to check it out before lunch tomorrow.

At least I know that Elliott's going to be thrilled.

The next day, I walk with considerable reluctance into the classroom that houses Theatre Club. There's a handful of people near the front of the room, but I'm drawn to the racks of clothes in the corner. I stand a good six inches away from the clothes, afraid to touch. Someone pops up from behind the Victorian tea dress and I nearly scream. My heart is racing, and I'm so caught off guard that it takes me a second to collect myself.

"Hi!" The girl in front of me is practically beaming, even though she'd completely scared the wits out of me seconds earlier. There's a golden glow to her deep brown skin and her curls frame her face in a way that suggests a great elegance. She's practically picture perfect - a model in her own right. There's a pinkish tint to her lips that adds to the everlasting aura of brightness that she exudes. I've known her for three seconds, and I both want to be her and want her to model my clothes. "I'm Clarisse, the 'President'." She adds air quotes around the word president, still smiling. It's a kind of nonchalance and humbleness that Elliott probably passed on. "You're Elliott Wilson's sister, Eliza, right?"

I start warming up to Clarisse. "Yeah, I am." It makes me a bit proud to be associated with my brother, and I know for a fact that it never fails to stroke his ego. Elliott likes knowing that people remember him, and I can't say I blame him. It doesn't hurt that he was Theatre Club president a few years back. Clarisse pushes a ringlet of hair behind her ear, and tells me to follow her. She introduces me to the other students; I recognize a few of the older members, but take the time to remember everyone's name.

Clarisse shrugs off her robes, and tells me to make myself comfortable. "Not much is going on today," she explains.

I sit in on a conversation between a Seventh Year Hufflepuff, Holly, and a Fifth Year Slytherin, Peter. They ask me for a few of my own opinions, probably because I go to a lot of Elliot's big productions. I hear the door of the classroom swing open, and I look up to see Terence Higgs walk in.

The smooth-skinned blond waves at a few of the other Slytherins and at Peter before he sees me. He gives me a crooked smile. Clarisse walks over to him and he says something before I see her give him a gesture to stay there, and she walks off into the corner. I walk over to him.

"You're in Theatre Club?" I ask, trying my best not to sound too curious.

Terence laughs and shakes his head. It's a pleasant sound; his voice is deep and smooth. "No, I'm just here to coordinate orchestra things for the next production." So he plays an instrument. I used to play the violin, if that counts for anything. I quit when I realized that drawing was more fun than sitting up straight and fine-tuning with tone-deaf ears. I really should have stuck to that posture thing, though.

"So you're a music guy," I say, with a total lack of better things to say. I can practically feel the rush of blood in my cheeks, completely embarrassed at how boring I sound.

"I've been playing the violin for as long as I can remember," he responds. There's a bit of a far-off look in his eyes, one that comes with a small smile. I take note. This must be what Terence Higgs looks like when he truly loves something.

Clarisse comes back, stack of paper in one hand while the other pushes back her hair. Part of me wonders why she doesn't just pull it back, but I can see that it's a habit of hers. She hands the sheet music to Terence. "Here you go. These should cover every instrument. Thanks again, by the way."

"It's really no problem," Terence says, smile gracing his features and revealing a small dimple on his left cheek. He bids Clarisse and me a goodbye. Terence walks out the door, exuding charm. I find it hard not to think about how nice he is, never speaking in clipped phrases or with a rigid brow. It feels like the kind of crush I'd have on an actor in a popular show. Really, I want to know more about him. He seems like someone I'd get along well with.

Clarisse and I walk back to the group, and she whispers, "That orchestra president is a really good guy. Go-getter, polite, he's got it all."

I laugh.

The rest of the meeting is spent with everyone interrogating me. Someone asks to see my sketchbook, and I nod happily when Clarisse asks me to help with costumes. Peter asks me questions about professional theater; he doesn't mention Elliot's name (which is sometimes a bit appreciated), even though all that I know is through Elliot's experience.

When the meeting ends, I feel a lot more at ease. I feel less like a fish out of water, closer to someone who finally knows what she wants. It lets me walk out of the classroom with a considerable anticipation for the things to come. Clarisse walks beside me.

"Have you ever considered modeling your own designs?" she asks. I look at her curiously. The only person to ever model any clothes I make is Oliver. She makes a general hand motion in my direction. "Thick brown hair, full lips, warm brown eyes; you're better looking than your older brother."

It's a strange comparison to hear, and a frank one. Everyone always tells me how both Elliott and I were both blessed with the "right genes", but I never thought one was better looking than the other. I don't have a response for Clarisse, who tells me that she's off to a Transfiguration class. I wave goodbye.


	4. Potions

Later in Potions, I'm trying my hardest to pay attention to Professor Snape's somewhat-droll monotone. I really enjoy Potions, really, because I find the cutting and mixing similar to cooking. This is probably why Elliott hated Potions so much - that, and Snape's rather unpleasant tendency for unnecessary criticism. I don't blame him; it's hard for anyone to forget their Professor calling them weak-willed for not stirring a potion correctly.

Professor Snape looks pointedly at Sara when he announces to start crushing the scarab beetles. He's probably still caught up on the weekend assignment and her less-than-beautiful penmanship. Sara isn't looking at him though, flipping through the pages of the Potions textbook instead. He moves on.

Fourth Year Ravenclaws share Potions with the Fourth Year Slytherins, and I have to say we get on alright. There are occasional snobs from both Houses, but that's a given with anything. Sometimes Snape makes a point to have us switch up partners, demanding that we partner between Houses. I have a small inkling that it's because he enjoys any ensuing drama, but I'll be caught dead before I say it out loud.

My partner is Cory Mettle, one of the Slytherin Chasers. He's civil enough, but I know from what I've seen at Quidditch games that he's as keen on winning as Flint. Cory has cropped, coppery brown hair and a smile that always looks more like a smirk. He's not very good at Potions, but he always listens to me during lessons. The first time we worked together, he only froze in mild surprise when I waved the knife around on accident as he was about to pour entirely too much dragon blood into the cauldron. It was a rough second class of the year.

Today, we're still working on the Wit-Sharpening Potion. We spent a while reading the chapters on the Confundus Charm and the Wit-Sharpening Potion, though it was mostly because Snape enjoys asking us rhetorical and self-defeating questions.

I'm cutting the ginger. Apparently, my knife-wielding episode hasn't scared Cory out of letting me cut most of our ingredients.

"Careful with the stir," I remind him, as he lifts his wand. He double checks the book quickly before proceeding, probably because he doesn't want to crush up more scarab beetles. They skeeve him out. Bugs definitely aren't in my good graces either, though, and like the gentlemanly bloke he is, he volunteered.

As he moves his wrists slowly, he says, "Saw you on the pitch with Wood."

I'm not exactly paying too much attention to what he's saying. The words don't register at all. Instead, I'm watching Snape walk closer to us. Cory's wrist falters and I move it gently. "Careful!" I warn. Cory mutters an apology. Snape would never let me hear the end of it if we messed anything up this early.

I relax when Snape gives us a brief glance and keeps going, Cory doing the same when he's done stirring.

The two of us have to wait for a bit before continuing. "What was that you were saying? Something about Oliver?"

"What's going on with you and Wood?" he says, eyes inquiring and tone deliberate. It's a bit of a hush. He doesn't want to attract Snape's attention, and neither do I.

I eye him suspiciously. I don't know why he's asking me this. It seems like something that would be most irrelevant to him. "We're friends."

"He invited you to the pitch though?" I half-ignore him, wondering why he's suddenly so talkative - and it's about Oliver, of all people. Jake? Sure. Amelie? Yes. Even Wesley Tyson. But Oliver?

The question's left hanging in the air, dangling by the thin string that Cory's weaved for it. I go back to carefully examining the surface of our potion.

"And what about Higgs?"

Why is he asking me about Terence when I've only run into him twice? Surely he doesn't think-

I nearly roll my eyes when I remember that Cory is on the Slytherin Quidditch team. "What, did Marcus set you onto me?"

"Flint?" Cory Mettle's normally smooth, calm demeanor shatters. The tips of his ears turn the faintest red, so faint that I probably wouldn't notice otherwise.

"Do you know another Marcus?"

"No," Cory says, still caught off guard.

I guess Marcus Flint must think that Oliver Wood's unseeming Ravenclaw friend must be making a move on Terence Higgs in order to give his opponent an advantage. That explains the sour look from days before.

"Look, Cory, I don't know Terence and I'm not planning on getting to know him. Besides, Flint's delusional if he thinks Oliver would be so desperate as to send a spy from a different House." Terence Higgs is the boy you see around school, the one who you know about but don't ever try to get to know.

Cory nods. "Right, I'll.. tell him that." Cory remixes the armadillo bile and I cut up the last of the ginger root. He doesn't quite look me in the eyes for the rest of class.

When we're cleaning up and getting ready to leave, Cory stops me. "Look, Wilson, you're not that bad." I raise an eyebrow at him. I'm not sure how to feel about the beginning of this conversation. He offers me a small apology. "Sorry about Flint."

"I don't expect you to control your Captain, you know."

"Right." He nods once. "I'll see you." After a brief moment he adds, "Later."

That night, I head into the Great Hall for dinner with Jake. I've just given him a trim on his hair and he hasn't stopped reaching up to touch the sides of his head. My glasses start to slip down my nose and I push them up hastily. I already miss having contacts.

"It looks nice, I promise," I offer, trying to put him at ease. Jake bumps me with his shoulder playfully, his smile toothy and eyes crinkled at the corners.

"You're just saying that because you're the one who did it."

"There's only half an ounce of truth in that statement," I huff dramatically, arms crossed.

"I guess it does look okay," he admits jokingly. I give him a glare and he dissolves into laughter. "Maybe I can ask what Amelie thinks."

Amelie looks up from her plate when we sit down across from her. "Did you give him a haircut?" she asks, eyes narrow and examining.

"Maybe?"

She shrugs. "It's nice."

I turn to Jake with a triumphant expression. "Hey! See?"

Jake wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. "Thanks again, Eliza."

I flip my hair gently and shrug. "What can I say?" The faux pretentiousness doesn't last for long and I burst into giggles. Jake smiles, but tells me to eat.

Sara is off to the side, just bemoaning the new assignments we've gotten. Nicholas tries to comfort her, offering help, but Robert shakes his head. He likes to tease that Sara's a hopeless case. It's something she fully embraces.

I hear the clang of a fork behind me, and I turn around in curiosity. I sweep my hair over my shoulder so that I can get a better idea of what just happened, and Marcus Flint looks back at me. His gaze is stony and his eyebrows are two thick lines of disdain. I try to keep myself from rolling my eyes. I don't know how much more it's going to take to get him to figure out the obvious - I'm not after Terence, or his team.

The clang was from Terence, whose hands are rubbing his temples. He says something to Cory, who puts a bow-shaped pasta into his mouth meekly. Terence turns so that he's facing Marcus and opens his mouth, but his eyes meet mine. He falters, and his lips close. I turn back around with the feeling that I've been looking for too long.

I poke at the food on my plate in slight embarrassment. I shouldn't have been looking, but I especially hate that I was caught. Jake taps my wrist gently with his pinky finger. He raises his eyebrow and asks why I was staring at the Slytherin table. I skate by with some stupid excuse that I know he doesn't believe. I'm not about to go off about being used as a pawn in some nuanced Quidditch mind tactics, though, so it's just easier if I don't try to explain.

I chew my food in observant silence. My eyes rake over ever detail that the Great Hall has to offer, from the flames of the bobbing candles to the glint of the silverware against the light. My eyes travel straight ahead of me, across the hall. It's the Gryffindor table.  Percy Weasley is talked animatedly about something to one of the other Fifth Year boys, and Charlie Weasley is flipping through some pamphlet. Fred and George are talking to the Quidditch commentator friend of theirs, Lee Jordan. They're laughing as freely as ever. I look over just slightly, to where Oliver sits with Angelina and Michael Bernard - who is the person I'd call Oliver's best friend.

My eyes move to his face, meeting his gaze. Oliver breaks eye contact immediately and stares at his plate. My face warms, and my heart starts beating a little faster. I go back to eating my pesto, and I peek whenever I see that Sara's blocking his view. Was he.. staring? There's no way. Is there?

I excuse myself from dinner early, appetite sated. I mumble a half-coherent excuse about the library as a I leave the Great Hall. When I look at Oliver at the Gryffindor table as I walk out the doors, I can't help but look. I figure that I probably look as barmy as they come.

The halls and stairways leading up to the library are quiet. The noises come from the chatter of portraits, the whooshing of the ghosts and the clunks of the moving staircases. It's almost rhythmic in nature, matching the slightly racing pit-a-pat of my own heart.

I've left in the "quiet period," the one in which the people who eat fast are already gone and the ones who stay aren't close to standing up. Madam Pince sits at her desk, looking at me sharply when I enter. I sit myself at a desk and pull out my parchment and quill. I'm not entirely sure what to do - I finished all of my homework in Study Hall already. I'm too lazy for revisions, and Sara's not around for me to help.

After a long period of looking at Madam Pince reprimand people and then quickly pretending to read a book, I pull out my sketchbook instead. I have nothing to write with except for my quills. There's a huge degree of disdain that I have for drawing with a bird feather. I contemplate for another brief moment before I just go for it anyway.

I dip my quill into my ink pot and curse when I get a slight smatter of ink spots across the top corner of the page. I always forget how careful I have to be. It takes a few strokes for me to get used to the puddling and running of the ink. Soon enough, I have a rough sketch of the Quidditch pitch. I start drawing a broom, Keeper's gloves..

"Who's that?"

I jump and my quill flies away from me, ink splatters across my wrist. My heart races and I breathe in to get rid of the bubble in throat. I turn to the close voice from my right and brown eyes meet blue eyes. Terence's blond eyelashes are thick enough to frame his eyes dramatically, something I haven't noticed until now. He's smiling.

"You completely startled me," I say, eyes locked on his. We're so close that I can count the flecks in his eyes.

His eyes dart from my hair to my lips. "Do you always like to state the obvious?" he says cheekily. I don't answer. "I draw too, wanna see?"

Just when I thought he couldn't get any more him.

He pulls out a small little sketchbook. He flips to the first page. While I focus on fashion, he draws portraits and scenery. The coloring is gorgeous. The first is of the Forbidden Forest, the trees lush and green.

"Wow."

"I think yours is even wow-er." He pulls over a chair and plops down in the seat.

"Wow-er? I didn't think I'd hear that from a Slytherin."

"It's something about," he gestures at the air, "you." I raise my eyebrows. "It's not a bad thing, I promise."

Part of me is somewhat happy about this. I smile to myself and hum as I finish the sketch. I begin to add color while Terence watches from beside me. I can practically feel his gaze on me, and I try not to look. I add the Keeper's gloves to Oliver's mini self and scrunch my nose up as I try to recall every detail.

"Is that Wood?" Terence asks, breaking the long silence. "It must be."

"It is."

He rests his chin in his palm. "Maybe you can draw me one day," he says, more to himself.

I laugh. "Maybe, in your dreams," I tease. He fakes a wounded look and it makes me grin. "I'll consider it."

"Okay, it's a deal," he says, matter-of-factly. "You should probably get back to your drawing," he says, but his tone is slightly urging. I hear pencil scratching paper and see that he's sketching something in his own book. I sit up straigher to get a look, and see flowing hair and glasses frames. It almost looks like me. "I didn't know you wear glasses," he says absently, pencil still moving.

"I normally don't," I reply. "I ran out of contacts." My right contact fell out when I was giving Jake his haircut, and I had no other one to replace it. My next shipment isn't for two days.

"They look nice on you," he says. I thank him, adjusting them again. We keep drawing. I can't hide the small smile that's showing on my lips, and I can't help the slight flush that's blossomed on my cheeks.

Terence Higgs. Always a surprise.

Terence and I get ready to leave together, with only an hour left until curfew. I sweep my hair into a ponytail. Terence is putting away his colored pencils, and he carefully tears the sketch out of his notebook. He puts it into the front of my sketchbook. He says it's a gift, from him to me.

"Anyway, how do you feel about that quill you're using?"

"I prefer my Muggle supplies," I admit.

Terence nods. "I'm a little impartial to colorchanging quills from Amanuensis Quills."

"I'm not the biggest fan of that one," I say. "Can you blame me?" I'm referring to the ink splatters on my hands. Terence shakes his head and charms the stains away.

"Quick fix."

I roll my eyes. "I'm just saying that you don't always need something magical."

"Maybe not," he says cheekily, "but I sure do like it."

I give him a look and he smiles. We get to the break in the hallway where we'll have to separate in order to get to our Common Rooms. We stand there awkwardly for a moment, with him looking at me while I look at anything but him.

"I'm sorry."

My eyes dart to his. I don't know what he's apologizing for.

"About Flint." Oh. So he's heard. "You know, we're a competitive team. He's a bit paranoid. Sometimes he's too paranoid, but you know that."

"It's okay-"

"He shouldn't have treated you like that. Like some pawn." Funny, that's exactly how I put it. "I'll try to keep it from happening again."

I want to tell him that I'm not that bothered, and that I can deal with anything that comes my way. But then I'd be stating the obvious again, wouldn't I?

Terence gives me a smile and wave, and as he walks away, I see him run his hands through his hair. I frown; I'm not sure if I'm the reason he's upset, or if his team is. I bite my lip and keep walking anyway.

I take a few steps, and Terence's voice rings out through the hall. "Eliza," he calls. I turn around to meet him. "I.. heard that you said you're not planning on getting to know me. Is that still true?"

My cheeks get warm. "No."

He smiles. "Okay. I'm glad. I would've been disappointed otherwise."

Me too.

He gives me another wave, but it's filled with more energy this time. I wave back, and when I turn away, I can't stop smiling.

I get up the tower, climbing the winding stairs and getting to the knocker. I see two First Years staring at it in befuddlement, and one of them plops herself onto the ground.

"How am I supposed to know that?" she complains. "I'm eleven! I only know how to love my mother!"

I almost laugh, but hide it with a fake cough into my elbow. I straighten my face out, and sit down next to her. Her friend looks at the knocker in despair.

"What's the riddle this time?" I ask.

The knocker responds. "Could a love potion influence real love?" Oh, it's not that hard.

The First Years look at each other, mouths open. They probably don't know anything about Amortentia. I fiddle with my glasses. These types of questions don't really make much sense to ask, because the answers always sound half-assed.

"Effect-wise, no; textbooks tell us that it's infatuation, not love. But in the sense that it smells like what you supposedly love most, it could sway your feelings by planting that seed and convincing you that that's what your heart wants."

It's not great, but good enough, I hope.

The door swings open. The First Years clap. "We've been out here for almost half an hour!" one of them says.

The Common Room is fairly crowded. A few students are crowded around a puzzle box, another group is studying by the bookcases. Some are just sitting there and conversing.

"And no one let you in?" I ask.

They look at each other, realization washing over their features. I guess they never thought to just beg for entry by knocking on the door. "Desperate times-"

"Call for desperate measures," I finish. "Good night, girls."

"Thanks again!"

I head up to the dorms and set down my stuff before heading into the bathroom. Sara and Amelie are chatting about tomorrow's Transfiguration lesson, and they wave at me before they get back to it. After I wash up, I find them reading. Almost in sync, they set down their books and sit on my bed.

I cast a drying spell on my hair, looking at them curiously.

"Where have you been?" Amelie asks, eyes narrowed. "It's almost curfew."

"Well, mother, I was in the library." I pout at Amelie.

Sara gives Amelie a sharp glance. "Who were you with?" Sara never probes, she only poses the question.

I'm about to say 'no one,' but I'm not inclined to lie. "Terence Higgs, actually."

Amelie frowns. "Isn't he.. super serious?"

"I have heard that he's a bit stern," Sara says.

Not once in any conversations with Terence have I gotten the impression that he's a 'serious guy'. He's pretty much the opposite, really. "Is he?"

"I heard from Robert that Terence is super focused all the time and doesn't have much fun," Amelie answers.

Not even with Quidditch and violin? He has hobbies.. Is he really the 'serious guy'?

"He's pretty fun, though."

Sara shrugs. "You can be fun and serious."

"I guess.." Amelie says. "He's quite a looker."

I roll my eyes and hug my pillow. "Maybe I've noticed."

Sara stands up and straightens out my blanket. "We should get to sleep. We've got Transfiguration tomorrow, and I've barely got that done."

Amelie sighs. "Goodnight, girls."

"Goodnight," I echo, settling under the covers. Sara does the same.

We put out the lights, and the room goes dark.


	5. Elliott

Thursday is always a bore. There's something about the excitement of the approaching weekend that dulls the events of Thursday, which is a bit sad. I pity Thursday, and I pity everyone who feels like a Thursday. The week is a routine. Mondays are exciting because you hate them, but they bring on a new week. Tuesdays, you're basking in the thrill of being free of Monday. Wednesday is when things start to heat up, and Friday is the beginning of a break. Thursday just sits there.

Am I a Thursday?

I can't possibly be a Thursday.. can I?

I mean, my brother's a celebrity. Elliott's always been in the spotlight. My mom put him in it at first, just to see if he'd fit in. He really did belong there, with its fancy effects and booming voices. Elliott's just become a household name by now, and he's only twenty two. In fact, as I'm thinking this, I can spot his face on a magazine cover from across the Great Hall. That doesn't make me a Thursday, though.

I stare at the fork in my hand. Jake nudges me. "You alright, Eliza?"

It's barely enough to break me out of my thoughts. "Oh, yeah. Sorry." I'm still wearing my glasses, and I can now see that they're slipping slightly. I push them back.

The Great Hall is filled with idle chatter. Amelie is talking to Nicholas and Sara, waving her hands about in bumpy circles. She's probably talking about Hogsmeade plans. While everyone talks and warms up for the day, Jake and I observe. He and I have always been good at that part - the comfortable silence. We stifle laughter together and share the most shareworthy moments, a habit we've entertained over the past few years.

I put my hand on top of his. He turns to me, eyes wide. "Jake, am I a Thursday?"

The seriousness drains out of his expression. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his shoulders shake with silent laughs. "A Thursday?"

"Yeah, a Thursday," I say, folding my arms indignantly. Jake's head is in his hands now, an unwavering smile on his face. He asks me how he's supposed to understand what I mean. "You know, with how Fridays are exciting and all," I try to explain. Jake's head turns and he stares at me, dead in the eyes. "Just, what do you think of Thursday?"

He's still laughing, but they're more sporadic. I can't believe that he's laughing at me right now. It was a serious question, and my best friend has the nerve to laugh in my face about it? I see how it is, Jacob.

I frown at him and go back to eating. Jake stops laughing, and his hands wrap around my wrist. "Okay, I'm sorry. I promise I'll try to understand." I start with Sunday, but by the time I've gotten to Tuesday, he's smiling again.

"What is it now, Jake?"

"It's just - I completely get what you're talking about. It's just funny hearing you explain it." I huff at him and take some of his food in retaliation. "If it makes you feel any better, you're definitely not a Thursday."

I turn to him. "You mean it?" He nods. I grin, and hug him. "Good."

Jake starts listing people who he thinks are actually Thursdays, but he's interrupted by a series of loud hoots. The sound of strong wings in flight fills the Great Hall, and everyone watches with a slight build of anticipation as they wait for their owl. My eyes go from owl to owl, trying to find the familiar grey plumage of my own owl.

"There she is!" I say. I watch as Penny perches, dropping a small box and a letter. I dig through my bag for a small pouch of treats, and give Penny two. I stroke her feathers gently, and she gives a hoot before flying out of the open window at the top of the Great Hall. Jake's owl, a large brown owl named Taurus, turns to stare at me when Jake comes up emptyhanded; his treats are nowhere to be found.

My best friend looks at me with pleading eyes; I roll my eyes and hand Taurus three treats. Taurus flies away after delivering Jake's newspaper and Jake thanks me.

"How do you run out of treats so often?"

"I visit him a lot!"

He and I go back and forth about his lack of treat supplies and only go back to eating when Wesley starts chuckling at us. I pout at Wesley and he just grins lopsidedly at us. I finish my breakfast, and get back to my mail. I open the package first.

It's from my home address, so it could only be one thing.

"My contacts!"

I peel off the tape with a previously unseen fervor. I like my glasses, I guess, but I like contacts. I prefer the lessened risk of being stuck in a classroom with blurry vision. My mum's put in a small note, about how the Muggle optometrist had gotten in a new brand that he recommended. I stare at the packaging of the new contacts, and hope there isn't a difference.

Reminder: write Mum and thank her for saving my life.

I put the box of contacts into my bag, moving onto the letter in the aqua blue envelope. The gold, intricate sealing tells me that it's been sent from my brother's theatre. I break the seal and pull out a shimmering sheet of parchment.

I stare at it. To myself, I whisper, "Even their parchment is beautiful?"

I unfold the parchment and see my brother's neat print filling the sheet from top to bottom. I smile to myself. Elliott tries his best to get a letter in every week, updating me on his newest cast members or the funniest antics. I don't remember asking for it, but I'm grateful. I rarely see him as it is.

_Eliza!_

_I miss you, little pip! (I've always hated that nickname, but it's been 16 years. He's not stopping.) I hope you've been eating sweets for me. Not that you should, but just in case you needed an excuse. Blame your brother, okay? I don't mind._

_I heard from Clarisse that you're considering joining Theatre Club. I know that theatre isn't your thing and the artsy clothes thing is, but give it a try. I really think you'll have fun with the costumes. Promise me you'll get at least one design done before you quit!_

I pout at his letter. I wasn't going to quit.

_Here at the theatre, we're not doing anything too different. Remember when I told you that Celestina Warbeck showed up? I think our crowds have gotten busier since then, but a bigger audience is always a good thing. I think I'm doing alright, but I keep looking for the harshest reviews so that I can improve my performances. I know you told me not to do that, but I'm tough, Lizzie. I'll be fine. When was the last time I cried off-stage?_

_Okay, it was during a Muggle film. But that's different._

_I had dinner with Mum and Dad. We all miss you, but we're glad you're sending photos. Keep doing that, Mum's hanging them up on a clothesline that she's pinned into the wall. Dad's as busy as ever, with his important Muggle-things at the Prime Minister's office, but he always asks Mum for copies, you know. They're doing well, and so am I. Hope you're the same._

_Also, send me sketches. Preferably of me. I need to update my collection. While you're at it, ask Oliver to throw in something. Has he been alright? Is Captaincy treating him well? Have you two been talking, even?_

_I hope so. You two are a good pair. And Mum wants a picture for her clothesline._

My eyes dart over to where Oliver normally sits, and he's reading an issue of Quidditch Weekly. I make a mental note to try to sneak in a bit about Elliott into a conversation.

_Anyway, I'll see you the next time you come home. Promise. Take care of yourself, okay? Don't let anyone get you down._

_Except me._

_Kidding, Eliza. Love you,_

_Elliott._

I fold up the letter carefully and slip it back into its envelope. I won't be able to respond until nighttime, so I open up my sketchbook to stick it there.

As I'm fumbling with the cover, a slip of paper falls out onto my lap. I put in Elliott's letter before I look, only to see the drawing from Terence. I laugh when I see that he's signed the drawing, right on the frames of the glasses. It's a nice gesture to have, so I slip it in deeper where I know it won't get lost.

I readjust myself and pick up my things. "Hey, Jake, I'll see you in the Transfiguration."

Jake looks up at me when I stand up. "Where are you going?"

"Just wandering."

Jake waves, and so do the rest of our friends. I step out of the Great Hall and sweep my hair back over my shoulders. I start to pull it up, but hear someone calling my name.

The voice is a familiar one.

"Hey, Ollie."

Oliver stops in his tracks, a few steps away from me. "Oh, hi, Eliza." My eyes are trained on his. "You're wearing your glasses. I've always loved those."

My smile widens. "You also always said that you'd hate to wear them because they'd make Quidditch a pain," I tease. He laughs, but it fades into silence. After a beat, I say, "Is anything the matter?"

Quickly, he responds with, "No, not really." I nod a bit slowly, somewhat concerned and confused. "I just felt bad for saying no to Hogsmeade, so I wanted to spend some time with you."

My cheeks warm. "Really?" He nods firmly. We set off down the hall together, and I notice the way his wet hair is clinging together. "Did you have practice?"

"Yeah, early at six." My eyes widen at the time, despite myself. I know it's not uncommon for Oliver to get the rest of the team up at unpleasant hours for an intense session. "We're getting there. Helps that it's too early for Flint to sneak around, too."

Part of me wants to mention Marcus Flint's ungrounded grudge against me, but I know that it'll just distract and worry Oliver. It's better having Oliver do his normal thing with the team while Marcus Flint glowers at me. It's not like I'm doing anything wrong. If he really has a problem with me drawing with Terence that one time, then that's something only he can fix.

I'm also not too sure how Oliver would react to me getting buddy-buddy with the Slytherin Seeker. It'd probably end in him arguing with Flint again, so I'm just going to avoid talking about it altogether.

"How are classes?"

Oliver shrugs. "They're only fun when you're around."

"Me?"

"Yeah, but I guess I'm not doing too bad in the others." Oliver looks contemplative, like he's trying to figure out what to say next. "I'm still really sorry that we can't go to Hogsmeade."

"It's okay, you know that I understand."

Oliver simply smiles. It's small and understated, not toothy or wide. But I like it. I like him.

I like his cinnamon-vanilla hair, his small smiles, his brown eyes and his rough hands. I like how he stands taller than me but never towers over me, and I even like how he invites me to the pitch so often. I like the way he dozes off whenever he's trying to study after a long practice. I like the way he decorates his room, and I like the Quidditch books on his shelves. I even like mending all of his Quidditch robes.

I like him so overwhelmingly that I don't think that I can come up with enough phrases to describe it.

"I promise that when things slow down with Quidditch, we can go to Hogsmeade together."

"Is that a promise you intend to keep?"

"I never promise anything lightly." He smiles playfully and I hide my laughs. I nod.

"Okay, I'm looking forward to it."

He and I look at each other for a few minutes, and the look we're sharing is the kind that makes your chest warm. I check the time and sigh. Transfiguration starts soon.

Oliver tells me to go first, but before I turn away, my impulses get the better of me. I walk right up to him, so close that our robes are swishing against each other. He looks down at me in surprise.

I stand up on the tips of my toes and wrap my arms over his shoulders in a tight hug. I think I hear a sharp intake of breath before Oliver's arms wrap around my torso, steadying me. His chin rests on my shoulder and I can smell that damned cinnamon-vanilla again. I'm so comfortable standing here like this, I don't even want to let go. His hand pats my back gently, almost as if it's along to the beat of my pounding heart.

With reluctance, I let go. His eyes roam my face for an explanation, but I just flash him a quick smile and turn away. Over my shoulder, I say, "I'll see you around, Oliver. Practice hard!"

The corners of his lips turn up. "Right, I'll see you around."

I guess anyone would tell me that I'd always come second to Quidditch in Oliver's eyes, but I'm okay with that. I'd rather have him happily pursuing his dreams - my feelings for him don't ever need to be his priority. He'd say the same for me with my designing. It's what's best.


	6. Excitement

I get myself into my seat only moments before the door closes. Jake raises an eyebrow at me, the way he does when he really wants to ask but has to wait. He's gotten extremely good at his eyebrow quirking.

Amelie and Sara sit on the other side of the classroom, so Amelie can only give me a quick glance before Professor McGonagall tells us all to settle down.

I can't quite focus. The words go in one ear and out the other; I write them down, but by the end of class I don't even remember half of what's been said. I'm not exactly sure what's gotten into me, and instead of listening I just ponder this as well.

I wish class would just end, quite hon-

McGonagall's voice rings out, silencing my jittery thoughts. "You are dismissed."

I'm the first to stand, pushing my books and quills into my bag. I start to leave, with Jake starting after me. He catches up to me right outside the door, asking if I'm okay.

"I don't know, actually. I'm feeling a bit jumpy today."

"You don't say?" He looks pointedly at my feet, which are tapping to a disjointed beat.

"Sorry. Maybe someone slipped a potion into my pumpkin juice this morning."

Jake rolls his eyes. "You're so twitchy, Eliza." Over the course of our friendship, Jake's had to deal with my random bouts of energy. They come and go, usually following a cup of heavily sugared coffee.

"I'm just ready to do something. Classes are finally over for the day, and we don't have any work to do."

"Take it slow, read a book." I consider it for a second, but shake my head. Jake and I move away from the doorway. Amelie and Sara have already left us to go visit the owlery, and Nicholas is still in a class.

I give him a pat on the cheek. "Actually, I think I'll go look for Terence."

"Higgs?"

"That's the one!" I take off down the hallway, headed towards the library. In our short acquaintanceship, I've learned that Terence's favorite place to hide is in the library, at the desk by the Arithmancy books.

"I'm sure Pince will let me move here someday," he'd told me. I rolled my eyes at him at the time, but I actually found it quite funny.

He's a charmer, that Higgs.

I'm passing the courtyard when I, quite literally, run into Oliver. He catches me by the shoulders, grip firm and surprisingly warm, considering my school robes.

"Hey," he says. His voice is low, so quiet that I'm sure I'm the only one who can hear. We're so close to each other... If I weren't so distracted by his smile, I could count his eyelashes.

Or kiss him.

Before my thoughts get the better of me, I grab his hands and hold them in mine. His thumbs run over my palms and my heart starts to race.

"Hey, Ollie. Are you headed to practice again?"

"Oh, right. I am." I can tell there's a bit of urgency to his answer, because, after all, the Slytherin versus Gryffindor match is next weekend.

I don't play Quidditch, so I don't think my opinion is necessarily valid, but double practices seem a bit much - which I admit is completely Oliver's style. The twins must be dragging themselves all the way down to the pitch just from the effects of the morning practice by now. I don't want Oliver to worry about the match more than he already is, though, so it's almost rude of me to stand here while holding his hands and taking up his time.

I give his hands a tiny squeeze, which gives my heart a little jolt right along with it. I shouldn't be doing this, indulging in little cotton candy moments to spoil myself. I let go.

"Good luck out there, Ollie. You know I'm your biggest fan!"

Oliver gives me a heart-stopping smile.

This is it. This is how I die — dropped dead in the cold stone hallways of Hogwarts, next to the handsome and confused Oliver Wood. In my opinion, it can't be the worst way to go.

I turn away from him reluctantly. I simply can't be caught up with him right now. What is it with me and running into Oliver? This is the second time today that we've run into each other in the halls. It happens much too often, and I can't really handle that. I'm a bit of an emotional wreck _because_  of Oliver, and his cinnamon-vanilla, and the necklace around my neck - gosh, I hope fate realizes the predicament it's put me in.

Merlin, I hate myself sometimes.

I leave Oliver to his Quidditch practice, and head to the library. I find Terence exactly where I think I'd find him - the little alcove by the Arithmancy textbooks. He's drawing something, and is so focused that his face can't be more than a centimeter from the paper.

"You're going to hurt your eyes, Terence."

He looks up at me and smiles. "You're not my mother."

"No, but I am nearly blind," I joke. "What are you drawing?"

He doesn't speak, only moves aside so that I can see his paper. "Oh, that's beautiful, Terence." The drawing that's got him so captivated is an intricate depiction of a dragon; the number of scales ponderous and the tail winding and resting on a tree. It's not colored yet - Terence is still adding scales to the body, and his quill scratches every so often after the moment he's taken to decide where to place them.

I sit down next to him and pull out my Transfiguration assignment, and we both work quietly together. "Are you booked this weekend for Quidditch practice?" I whisper. Madam Pince is shelving books nearby and I don't want to alarm her. Or interact with her, really.

"All Sunday, yeah," Terence whispers back. "Wood's booked the pitch for all of Saturday. Not that I'm complaining; it's Hogsmeade weekend and chaos would have been unleashed upon Flint otherwise."

It's only Thursday, and from what I've heard from Fred, Oliver couldn't get the pitch for tomorrow because of both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw teams. Wesley had squeezed his way into a spot by reminding Hooch that Gryffindor and Slytherin aren't the only teams in school. 

I think Oliver's still upset about it, actually.

"Is Flint not on your asses about practices?"

Terence shrugs. "He tries to be, but Wood's always beating him to the pitch." Typical Ollie. "Do you have Hogsmeade plans?"

"Not really." I figured that Jake and I would just buy some candy and sit in The Three Broomsticks for a few hours while Amelie dragged Sara along with her to the quill shop. I would even be able to get a haircut, if I really wanted to. Catching up with Wesley, Robert, and Nicholas was probably in the cards, too.

"Do you want to hang out, then? I only have lunch plans with Cory and a few other friends."

I think about it for a while. Terence and I haven't really been friends for that long, and spending time together in Hogsmeade is in a whole different universe from drawing together in the library. Most people would just say yes, but I'm just being cautious - if you really think about it, it's extremely easy to get caught in weird and awkward situations this way. 

Then again, I want to know him better, and that won't happen if we keep our friendship to the library. We can't really talk much here and it feels like Pince is always breathing down our necks. 

I'm going to take a chance on Terence Higgs and our friendship.

"Let's do it." I'm super aware that I took way too long to think of a response, but Terence goes with it. I appreciate that about him, his acceptance of almost everything that comes our way. He smiles, eyes sparkling and bright. "You know, I really think we should start spending time together  _outside_  of the library. All this whispering is terrible for our voices."

He laughs, but freezes when Madam Pince issues a warning from across the library.

"How did she even hear that?" Terence says, voice so hushed that I have to lean in closer to hear. He looks at his watch, which prompts me to look at mine. It's not quite dinnertime yet, but it's been a while since I sat down with him. He sighs. "I should get to the baths and get to work on everything else I have to do. Flint's holding practice just past the wee hours tomorrow and I don't think he'll forgive me if I'm late from sleeping in." I decide to stay in the library to get ahead on my work, and Terence leaves. 

"See you later, Terence."

"I'll see you soon," he says, waving.

Just like that, I'm alone again. I figure the silence gives me a good reason to finish all of my assignments for the next few days. My Transfiguration assignment was finished not long after I sat down with Terence, so I move on to my Potions. 

"Eliza?" someone says from behind me. I turn around, and it's Wesley. "What are you doing by the Arithmancy books?" I can see a Muggle novel in his hand, and his book bag is slung over his shoulder. 

"I have a friend who likes to sit here," I respond. 

Wesley takes a seat next to me and looks around to see if Pince is nearby. When he sees that the coast is clear, he relaxes a little. I laugh a little, but stifle it. "She's scary!" he says, quieter than I've ever heard him. Well, he's not wrong. She really is.

"Hey, Wesley, you're a Fifth Year."

"I am."

I don't know much about Terence, detail-wise. What I know: he's an artist, he loves music, he's the Slytherin Seeker, and he's a Fifth Year. I know close to nothing about his other friends or his family, or anything like that. But Wesley is in his year, so I'm hoping he can help.

"You know Terence Higgs, right?" Most people I know like Terence, but mostly because he's a bit quiet, and unassuming. He doesn't really talk, so he can never say anything wrong. When he does speak to the general public, it's all charming codswallop, really.

Wesley leans back in his chair, getting comfortable. There really isn't much longer until he and I are going to leave for the Great Hall, but he's making the most of it anyway. 

"The Slytherin Seeker, yeah. Why?"

"Well, he and I are friends now, and I don't really know much about him. I was hoping you know some odds and ends that you can pass along.."

"Maybe," Wesley says, a look of deep thought coming across his features. He looks sharp, his new glasses framing his face perfectly. It doesn't take long for him to start listing things that he's learned about Terence over the years; last year, he learned that Terence is the best person to go to for help with Herbology, and this year he learned that Terence's favorite food is alfredo pasta. I don't know exactly why Wesley knows what Terence's favorite food is, but his best quality is that he notices the smallest details about people -- even if he never talks to them. "One thing I've heard about Terence Higgs is that he's not really known for being the life of the party. He's always been more quiet, reserved. Stern, sometimes."

"Amelie and Sara told me that," I say. I start resting my head on my arms but leave my head turned so that I can still see Wesley. "I don't think he's so serious."

"I don't really know the guy," Wesley reminds me. "He's usually with Flint, and Flint doesn't like me."

That's right - Marcus Flint is one of the only people at Hogwarts who's anti-Wesley Tyson. Then again, Marcus Flint is anti-most people.

Project Know Terence has started out on a bum note. I mean, I probably should've just asked Terence himself, but hindsight is always 20/20, right?

Wesley and I sit together for the next hour in a blanket of silence, for the most part. We lean over to each other every so often with hushed whispers that Pince  _still_  has no problem missing. See, Wesley is a Muggleborn and the only other person I know who genuinely enjoys American Muggle television programming. Sometimes we'll talk about it on our way down from Ravenclaw Tower, headed in opposite directions (normally with him to the pitch while I'm en route to the Great Hall), and we'll be so engrossed that we'll follow the other to their destination. I've lost count of how many times I've nearly slammed into a Quidditch player on the pitch while Wesley's typically impeccable reflexes cause him to grab my shoulders and pull me back.

Wesley and I have trouble shutting up around each other, actually. Even after it's been a while and I'm not sure if Wesley even remembers who I am (he's a popular guy!), he can make a conversation run for miles. He and I only leave the library when I make too many television jokes and Wesley's attempts at holding back laughter start to make him sound like an overjoyed seal.

We walk outside in hushed giggles, Madam Pince glaring at us as we sheepishly glance back.

"You know, Wesley, I've never been in trouble."

"Really?" Even Wesley's been in detention, not being able to keep himself from a few post-Quidditch scuffles.

"Really! What would I have done to land me in detention?"

"Disrupt the peace of the library?"

I laugh at him, swatting his shoulder. "That was because of you."

"You were making the jokes!" he says, feigning innocence with a wide smile across his face. He's never been good at telling anything but the truth. "Oh, let's just get the the Great Hall."

Wesley and I are the some of the last to get to dinner, and yet again my plate's been - or being - filled for me. Wesley sits next to Robert, not far down the bench away from where Jake and the rest of my friends have already taken their spots. Jake is still shoveling mashed potatoes onto my plate, next to three pieces of roast chicken.

I sit down. " _Jake_ , how much do you think I eat?" I take my plate from him gently before he can add more food. "Thank you, but it's really so much!"

Nicholas takes the piece of roast chicken that I offer him. "I tried to tell him, Eliza, but he wasn't having it."

"These are your favorites!" Jake protests. 

I squeeze his hand. "Oh, Jake." I chuckle, looking back to my plate. My mashed potato scoop looks more like a hill, but I pour a little more gravy on it and start eating anyway.

"Only one more day until Hogsmeade!" Amelie cheers, spoon in hand as she pumps her fists. Amelie  _loves_  Hogsmeade weekends. She says that she desperately needs space from Hogwarts sometimes, and Hogsmeade and holiday breaks are the only ways to do it. I think it's good for her - Amelie's always so stressed about something or the next thing and it makes me sad that she hardly gets a break. "Oh, and Charms and Herbology aren't so bad either," she says.

Sara perks up when she hears the mention of Charms, which I'd have to say might be a first. "I actually did the homework, everyone," she says. 

Amelie giggles. "After you made me read it aloud to you first."

Sara blushes. "I was two chapters behind until you read it to me."

"We can all help you out when you're behind, Sara," I remind her. "We'll all sit down with you, a class at a time, until the assignment for the day is done."

"Oh, I couldn't-"

Jake looks at me and then turns to Nicholas and Amelie. We all nod. "It sounds good to me," he says, reaching to his left to grab some bread. He takes a bite and then grins.

"I love you all," Sara says. It's the most help she's ever accepted from us. Whenever we offer, she heads to a small corner in the Common Room and works on her schoolwork until she falls asleep. It's the worst way to fall asleep - I'm saying this because I've done it once and my neck really hasn't been the same since. Books, I've learned, are definitely not an alternative to pillows.

When we finish dinner, we all head up to the Common Room. There's a stack of magazines on a table, and I can see a familiar mop of brown hair  from underneath yesterd ay's issue of Quidditch Weekly. It's Elliott's latest interview with Witch Weekly.

I roll my eyes when I see that the subtitle is " _Love on the Brain for Elliott Wilson?_ " I put it back down. Amelie takes note.

"So,  _is_  love on the brain for Elliott Wilson?" Amelie asks, jocular. 

My face screws up. So no one overhears, I say, "Oh, Merlin, no, he hasn't dated anyone since Nina van Camp."

"I feel sorry for Elliott, sometimes. With all those journalists following him around?" Nicholas says, still looking at the Witch Weekly cover from where we stand. "That Rita Skeeter's got an awful knack for making even a written publication grate on the ears."

"I hate her. She followed me around to get any dirt on some supposed spat that Elliott and I were supposed to be having." My mum got rid of her by telling her off in the middle of a very crowded Fortescue's Ice Cream shop.

"She goes after all of the hot names in the Wizarding World," Jake says. 

"Elliott's pretty scared of her," I shrug. 

"You'll be in his shoes next," Nicholas says. "Picture it now: Eliza Wilson, fashion witch of the year."

I flush slightly. "Thanks, Nick." The five of us pass around a Zonko's catalog for a short while, and I'm half amused and half disgusted. "Frog spawn soap?  _Why?_ "

The twins are probably flipping through the same catalog, overjoyed. It's too bad that they won't be able to make it to Hogsmeade. I'm thinking I'll pick something up for them, as a surprise. I'd never thought I'd say this, but maybe I'll get the frog spawn soap?

I'm still thinking about my older brother by the time we all decide to head to bed. I haven't actually drawn a lot of  _clothes_  lately. I've been dipping my toes into other art, mostly because it reminds me of when I was younger. Before I ever even thought about fashion designs, I just liked to draw. I know Elliott was serious about me joining the costumes department for the drama club, but I really haven't sat down to do anything about it. I should ask find Clarisse and ask her about it and if she'd still accept anything from me. 

My designs have only ever been materialized once, and the result is around my neck. Oliver's gift to me for my fifteenth birthday was the first time I'd ever held anything from my fashion sketchbook in my hands. It'd be nice to feel that again, right?

I change into my nightclothes and say goodnight to Amelie and Sara. Amelie's lulled into her usual quiet snores after less than ten minutes, and Sara is turning in her sleep every so often. I'm not quite tired yet - I draw my curtains around my bed to keep from disturbing my roommates, casting  _lumos_  and sticking my wand into my haphazardly tied bun so that I can see as I sit with my sketchbook in my lap.

There's a ball in one of the scenes from the play, so I start on a ball gown. There's going to be a plunging bodice with layers and layers of shimmery rose tulle and gold accents. It's meant to be for the main character; a big city, American muggle girl who travels to Europe and realizes that her family history is richer than it seems. The play is student-written and reminds me of some movie plot that's gone straight over my head. I'm going to write Elliott about it soon and ask him if he knows what I'm thinking about.

I only stop when my wand slips out of my hair from nodding off. I close my sketchbook gently and go to sleep.

\---


	7. Strawberry Cheesecake

Oliver and I keep running into each other. It's basically a habit. I like to think it's because of human nature and the way two people can inexplicably be tied together - that maybe Oliver and I are tied together. It's nice to believe that we see each other so often because we're meant to. I bump into him on Saturday morning, water from his shower dripping down his neck. I'm headed to breakfast before Hogsmeade. I'm coming from the Common Room alone because I'd ended up being the last to get ready.

He smiles when he sees me. My heart swells so greatly that it makes me think I could remember this moment forever. Embarrassingly enough, everything he does makes me feel this way. 

"Good morning, Ollie."

I know he's been up since the crack of dawn - he had the same Saturday practice schedule during the summer. He always had his radio on and his window open, and I was  _always_  waking up to whatever he was playing. 

"Good morning, Eliza."

He once tried to give me a nickname; it was when we were thirteen, and I'd just decided to call him Ollie because it reminded me of Teddy Rubenstein, a famous American Keeper. The nickname he gave me was Coffee Bean, and it makes me blush now because he's never been the creative type and the effort, albeit a bit strange, touched me. He got used to calling me Coffee Bean for the better part of a year, even at school, but it never caught on (naturally). I don't think he's given me a nickname since.

Oliver's Quidditch robes are draped over his arm - he's just wearing a striped jumper and beige pants. I notice a frayed tear near the hem of his Quidditch robes, and I instinctively reach out and run my hand over it. 

"Do you need me to-"

Fred comes rushing down the hallway, passing us without a glance but completely grabbing our attention. He yells over his shoulder, "Come  _on,_  George! We can't miss this!  _Vive la revolution!_ " George comes speeding by only seconds later, practically cackling as he does a little jump of glee. 

Oliver and I share a knowing look, and I try not to laugh at what we've seen. "Do we want to know?"

Oliver shakes his head. "Probably not, right?"

"Why was he speaking french, of all things?" It probably has something to do with the new Zonko's catalogue that's being mailed today. Oliver says that he's not really sure the twins know the whole meaning behind the phrase. I can't say I'd expect them to know it, either. Trailing behind the lanky redheads, he and I head into the Great Hall together; I walk him to the Gryffindor table. 

Michael Bernard is already sitting next to the twins, who are chatting loudly about the mail they've just gotten. Michael greets me with a high five. He's from California, and only goes to Hogwarts because his traditional English grandparents insisted on it. He's one of those people who's sunny all the time, always warm enough to melt even the most stoic people. He's good at getting on with everyone because he genuinely has something in common with most - I think that this is why he's so close with Oliver, because, in a way, he gives what Oliver may lack in his understanding of people. I like him a lot. He always brings food when he visits Oliver during the summer, and stops by my house to give me some treats too.

Often, I find that you can tell a lot about a person based on the company they keep. It means a lot, at least to me, that the people Oliver spends his time with are all people who never fail to make me smile. Fred and George are mischievous but sweet, and Angelina is strong and kind. Michael is warm, and so is Oliver. Oliver can be all of those things, combined. 

Oliver sits, putting his robes down in the little space there is between him and Michael. I remember the tear in his practice robes and offer to mend them. I know that he'd never ask me to do it and he would never let me do it unless I really insisted. Sometimes, Jake will pass him on his way down to the Quidditch pitch for practice as the Gryffindor team finishes up. More often than not, Oliver has a new or aging tear in his robes and when Jake tells him to come to me, he says that he hates to waste my time. 

I don't know why he hasn't realized by now that I really do mean it when I say he'd never waste my time.

"I mean it, Oliver. It's no big deal and I'll do it for you." He smiles, small but oh so saccharine. Oliver Wood gives me toothaches. He and I agree to meet after dinner, and he tells me to have fun in Hogsmeade. 

\----

After breakfast, Terence catches up with me. He suggests that we walk together, and Sara agrees for me before I've even had time to process the request. 

It's weird, but Terence looks really handsome in his school robes. They give him a bit of a boyish charm, and when he smiles, it's like the seriousness that everyone loves to talk about melts away.

"Terence, you're cute."

He turns to look at me, caught off guard. I've never seen him caught off guard before. "What?"

"You are," I say. "Don't pretend you don't know it."

He laughs. "Okay. I won't." We share a look, but can't keep straight faces, so we look away. He spots my friends walking ahead of us. "Tell me more about them."

"My friends?" Terence nods. He explains that if we're going to be closer friends, then we need to know about each others' lives. I can't argue with that logic. I tell him about Sara's understated grace, and Jake's handle on life. I tell him that they teach me how to be better. I ask him about Marcus and the rest of his friends.

"I can't say I'm always learning from Flint," he says, "but they're good to me. They're good inside."

We talk about our families. Terence is an only child; his dad was a Hufflepuff and his mom was a Slytherin. They married straight out of Hogwarts and had him. Of course, I have Elliott as my older brother. 

Terence tells me he forgot that my older brother was famous. "Not that it matters," he says. "I'm sure people remind you plenty."   
  
He's not wrong. I find Elliott's face on plenty of magazine covers, covered in doodled hearts. People like to compare us sometimes without even realizing it, but it's not completely a bad thing. We're so different that I don't take any of it to heart.

"When did you start playing violin?" I ask. 

He counts on his fingers. "My mum started me when I was four, so I think it's been eleven years now?"

"You know what I was doing when I was four?" Terence and I are caught up in the moment, and just his presence is enough to make me melt into a goofy grin. "Absolutely nothing. Probably rolling on the ground, begging my mum to put on a Muggle movie, actually."

Terence and I are standing in front of The Three Broomsticks at this point. I see Marcus Flint with Adrian and Cory, and I see him look at Terence expectantly. Terence doesn't notice, though. I'm about to say something, but Terence starts to tell me about his favorite sketchbooks, so I wait until he's finished. 

"Are they waiting for you?" I ask, unsure if I'm intruding on his friends' time with him. 

Terence shrugs, still smiling. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me gently towards Zonko's, the Slytherin flight crew abandoned. "I think you're my favorite Wilson sibling, Eliza."

"But you haven't met my brother."

"Well, then, remind me not to meet him." I laugh but then Terence stops immediately, hand on his chin, deep in thought. "Actually, even after meeting him, you'll still be my favorite."

"You say that now, but you'll change your mind when he charms you into joining his fan club for life."

"That's a Wilson thing, not an Elliott thing." 

I blush, but I can't pull away from his gaze. I'm glad that Terence and I are friends. He's exciting, a breath of fresh air. I feel like he and I are most often on the same page, and it's not all that hard to talk to him. We never really talk about class, and that's nice too. People still tell me that he intimidates them while simultaneously making them love him, but I'm not sure what they're talking about. I can't really see Terence as the hard-shelled person people think he is.

Inside Zonko's, I lead Terence to the shelf of frog spawn soap, which I'm  _so incredibly_ confused by. I know that Fred and George will love it, though, so I buy two anyway.

"Those have to be a violation of nature," Terence says, watching a demo of the soap as he stands safely behind me. "Why would anyone in their right mind  _want_ a suspended clump of frog eggs?"

"Have you met the Weasley twins?"

Terence looks at me, wide-eyed. "Not exactly, but now I can't say I'm excited to." His expression makes me laugh, and we go over to pay.

Later, he and I sit at a small table in the Three Broomsticks, holding warm mugs of butterbeer. It warms my cold nose, and I take an indulgent swig. So far, Terence and I have been rosin shopping and quill shopping, with Honeyduke's next on the list. 

I look to see who's walking in when I hear the door open, and it's Jake with Nicholas. They spot me, and I wave. They come over, and I don't think they've noticed Terence yet.

"Eliza!"

"Hi, Jake," I say, setting down my mug. I know that Jake knows Terence, somewhat, but Nicholas doesn't know him at all. "Nicholas, meet Terence." They shake hands, and Terence and Jake do too, just to continue the formality. Jake asks if they can sit, and Terence and I scoot in so that they can join us.

I can tell that Jake and Nicholas warm up to Terence fairly quickly. They're laughing about something from a Quidditch match that I only briefly remember, so I sit back and watch them. It's nice; my new friend and my oldest friends getting along. Terence fits in, no problem.

\---

When we all get back from Hogsmeade, I go to meet the Gryffindor team as they come up from the pitch for dinner. As I get to the locker rooms, I can hear talking that tells me only the twins and Oliver are left.

I knock on the doorframe of the locker room. "Hello," I say. "is it safe to come in?"

"Eliza!" Fred says, showing up in front of me. He pulls me into the locker room, and gives me a hug. 

Oliver is still pulling his jumper on when Fred loosens his grip on my wrist and seats me on the bench. Oliver hastily tugs his jumper down and quickly turns to face us. He looks slightly red... I figure that he's still cooling down from practice.

George sits at my left, and Fred is on my right. We're facing Oliver, and he and I are so close that my legs just barely brush his. My left foot rests between Oliver's feet -- Fred and George's legs are too long to give me much more space.

Oliver looks down at the two bags on my lap. "Are those for us?"

I hand the Zonko's bag off to Fred first, who eagerly takes out the soaps and hands one off to George. "This is great," Fred says. "George and I would never have thought of the spawn!"

Oliver's eyes widen. "What? Did he say _spawn?_ "

George throws an arm over my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. He pulls me a bit closer and whispers, "I can't wait until you see what we've got in store for him." He and Fred then stand up, grab their books and  _book it_  out of the locker room. Oliver and I are left alone. All that's left of the twins is a red blur.

Oliver sits down next to me. I don't think he knows that he's so close, every movement he makes kickstarts my heart and makes it jump out of my chest. His hand is on his knee and my hand is on my knee; for a second, it looks like his fingers are dancing to meet mine.

I shake my head. "I got you your favorites." I pull out a small bag full of strawberry cheesecake bites. His mom has been making him strawberry cheesecake since his seventh birthday. When he was sorted into Gryffindor, she started making him dyed strawberry cheesecake so that he'd never miss his team too much.

He thanks me, popping one into his mouth even though I know eating them whole makes his jaw ache. "It's too bad they're not red, you know," he says after he swallows. He grins at me, at his little joke. I know he's not serious, but I wave my wand and make them redder anyway.

I'm close enough to him to rest my head on his shoulder, so I do. Oliver holds a cheesecake bite to my mouth and I only bite half of it. He eats the other half and I stare at his shoes. "Do you miss home?" he asks.

Oliver is so consistently busy at school that I'm not even sure he's ever had time to miss home. Practices in the mornings and nights, classes during the day. I feel like he'd have to be reminded to breathe if it came down to it. He forgot his own birthday because he'd run into Marcus Flint days earlier, and all it did was remind him that soon enough, Flint would be captain and so would he. I'm sure he misses his parents. They're kind, loving, and have always done their best to cheer Oliver on. 

I'm nowhere near as busy as Ollie and I know that I miss my family. I miss Dad's trips to Muggle London and how I'd tag along. I miss Elliott's habit of tripping on the stairs from running too fast. I miss Mum's cooking and her casual berating. 

Maybe what I miss most is how, when we're home, Oliver and I will lie on a bed (his or mine, not that it matters) and think about life -- Quidditch, drawing, where we'll be in twenty years. We know exactly where our paths our heading, but we've somehow worked each other into it. Oliver and Eliza, together, are written into the future somewhere.

When we're at school, I'm a bit uncertain of where I am with him. I know that he and I don't run in the same circles, but we both try. He's always been a good friend, and I've always loved him...

Hold on, do I love him?

Oliver turns his head so that he's looking down at me, and I meet his eyes. 

My voice is quiet, so quiet that he wouldn't hear me if he weren't this close. "Yeah, I do." I can feel his breath on my lips, short and staggered. Oliver's eyes close, and suddenly I feel like I'm spinning. Before his lips reach mine, I panic. I drop my bag loudly onto the floor. His eyes open, and we're staring at each other again. "You know, because Elliott.. and all.." Oliver nods, but we're not quite as close anymore because I'm moving to pick up my things. I feel less warm.

_Oh, Merlin, why did I do that?_


	8. The First Match

I feel so painfully stupid for dropping my bag on Oliver's foot right as he was about to kiss me (at least, I  _think_  he was about to kiss me).

Now, Oliver and I are walking to dinner together and I don't think I can speak. He keeps talking normally though, and it's a relief. I don't think I'd be able to breathe if he acted differently.

Why would he try to kiss me? He's never given me signs that he likes me, and I don't think I've ever hinted that I like him. Was it just a spur of the moment impulse?

I look at him, but he's looking at me, so I blush and turn away.

Oliver continues to speak. "I... uh... I-"

"I think you were saying something about Flint?"

I can feel Oliver's stare for a few seconds before he responds. "Oh. Right. I saw him practicing the other day. Their team's pretty good, but I've got a good feeling that Higgs isn't a better Seeker than Weasley."

Terence is fantastic and I don't understand many of the nuances of Quidditch, but I know Oliver is right; Charlie Weasley is Hogwarts Quidditch legend. You don't get people like him often. I know that having Charlie by his side gives Ollie just the boost of confidence that he needs before the match next Saturday.

I'm still in the process of mourning the closeness that I felt with Oliver just ten minutes ago. I start to think about what might've happened if we'd just kissed. He doesn't know I like him, and with his eyes closed he wouldn't have been able to see me lean in.

I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I try to initiate another kiss, I run the risk of Oliver rejecting my feelings. If I don't, well, I don't think he'll try again.

We get to the Great Hall and separate, but I don't stop looking at him until Jake catches my attention and starts asking about the Charms homework. Even then, I turn to him every few minutes in the hopes of a self-indulgent glimpse.

 _Oliver, I like you_. How hard could it be to say?

\--

So, apparently, telling one of your oldest friends that you like them  _is_  really hard. Every time I've tried, I've also had to remind myself that he can't deal with distractions leading up to the Quidditch match.

In Astronomy, as Professor Sinistra told us about Venus, I looked over to him to say something only to be interrupted by his ecstatic beams at the sight of a shooting star. In Care of Magical Creatures, he was completely distracted by the Nifflers that were rifling through Professor Kettleburn's pockets. At all other times, he was tired, doing homework, or at practice.

I then decided that I could wait until after Saturday. Now it's Saturday, and I don't want to say a word to him about my feelings.

The whole school is excited for the match, the first of the year.

Terence and I are sitting in the library, where he's hiding from the rest of his team. Terence doesn't get nervous easily, but he's extremely nervous now. I read silently next to him; Terence is sketching his frustrations, and I don't want to disturb him.

As for Oliver... Well, I know where Oliver is. Before a Quidditch match, he likes to sit in that little spot overlooking the lake. I'm sure he's repeating some mantra to himself to say in the locker room later, one that probably won't be all that helpful to the team.

Terence tosses his pencil down onto the table and I look at him in alarm. "Eliza, what team are you rooting for today?" The question makes me slightly uncomfortable, and I think he can tell. "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. That was quite inconsiderate of me."

"Well," I think of my next words carefully, "you should just know that I'm cheering for you, as your friend." I think he knows that my answer would be Gryffindor. It's not really a matter of me not liking the Slytherin team, or anything like that, it's just that I'm friends with most of the Gryffindor team. I put a hand on his shoulder. "Terence, why are you so nervous?"

Terence takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. "I guess I've never really felt the pressure of having to be a good Seeker until now."

I squeeze back. "I believe in you, Terence. And somewhere in that cold, hardened heart of his, I think Marcus believes in you too. Don't fret when you've already outdone yourself over and over again." I look at my watch - it's time for breakfast. "Come on."

Terence stands after I do, but holds his arms out for a hug. I lean into it, hoping that my hand on his back is enough to calm his nerves.

Terence sighs before letting go of me. We walk out of the library, and separate when we get to the Great Hall.

"See you on the pitch, Higgs."

He laughs, and I smile.

———

Later, Jake, Amelie, and I pile into a small space in the middle of the Ravenclaw stands. Sara is sitting somewhere in a far corner because she said that we would be a distraction to her viewing of the match. I have to crane my head just to catch a glimpse of her. She's also trying to finish her homework-- I can see her head bent over a book in her lap. The cheers of the students start to build as Madam Hooch takes her place in the center of the pitch, in position.

I look out across the pitch and see the Gryffindor team coming out on their brooms. They start their warm up laps, and I don't think I stop looking at the Gryffindors at all. I only know that the Slytherin team's come out when I notice the flashes of green in the air. 

The two teams face each other above Madam Hooch, who's giving what seems like her usual fair play speech. I don't even bother trying to follow the glint of the released Snitch. Instead, I pay close attention to the people on the brooms. 

Terence is looking straight ahead of him intensely. He's probably already searching for the Snitch. Oliver and Marcus Flint are looking at each other as Madam Hooch. When I look through my binocs, I think Flint is actually smiling. It makes me feel uneasy for what's to come. 

I don't tend to pay loads of attention during Quidditch, but I notice that Marcus Flint is on top of that Quaffle. He barks something at his Beater, and Adrian Pucey takes over handling the Quaffle. A Bludger heads straight towards George, and I wince. 

Oliver is swiftly blocking all of the Slytherin team's shots, but the Slytherin Keeper isn't far behind. With Fred and George busy trying to dodge the Bludger themselves, there's not much room for them to stop the barrage of throws coming Oliver's way.

Terence and Charlie are far out of sight by now. I know that they're both quite high up at the moment, but that's all I can tell. 

Eventually, the Slytherin team starts to gain on the Gryffindor team in points. First it's by ten, then twenty. Angelina and the other Chasers are hard at work trying to keep up. The difference shrinks from 100 points to 40.

Suddenly Charlie Weasley does a nosedive on his broom, Terence following close behind. Lee Jordan is excitedly shouting commentary into the microphone as Professor McGonagall berates him. They zoom through one of the Gryffindor hoops, Oliver having to swing a hard maneuver to avoid them.

I watch nervously, almost out of breath as I see them nearly graze the grass of the pitch. Terence suddenly pulls away from Charlie, gaining an advantage on what seems to be the Snitch going in the opposite direction. The chase continues until Terence leans forward a little more, reaches out his hand, and--

"HIGGS HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH!"

My heart is pulled in two different directions when I see the smile on Terence's face and the immediate slump of Oliver's shoulders.

Cheers erupt in different places of the pitch, but I immediately stand to rush down to catch Oliver at the lockers. Jake holds onto my sleeve briefly, a confused look in his eyes, but I shake my head and he lets me go.  

I take the steps, two at a time. As I reach the locker room, Terence is going in with the rest of the Slytherin team. Marcus Flint barely acknowledges me, but Terence grins when he sees me. 

I quickly congratulate him, giving him a small hug. "I told you that you could do it," I whisper to him. I look up at him, and it suddenly strikes me how blue his eyes are. What a curious shade they are.

I'm shaken out of it when I hear the Weasley twins shouting at Oliver to get out of the showers.

I say goodbye to Terence and head to the Gryffindor locker room. I stick my head through the doorway, and Alicia and Angelina are sitting next to each other on the bench. Angelina shrugs when she sees my face.

"He's losing it," she says. "He didn't change out of his uniform and headed straight into the showers."

The twins call me over. They're standing with Charlie, staring at Oliver. He's lying on the floor in the shower, letting the water douse him. Oliver's Quidditch uniform is soaked, and his helmet is in the corner collecting water like a bucket. I shrug off my bag and join him.

I can feel iciness in my bones when the water hits me -- Oliver's also decided to leave the shower freezing-cold. 

"Wait, Eliza-" George says, clearly surprised. Charlie and Fred get him to leave with them. Oliver and I are alone.

"Hi, Ollie," I say. I take his hand in mine as if it'll make him warmer. Maybe it does, I can't tell. Reaching over him, I almost turn the water off but decide against it. I should sit in it for a while longer, just for a moment, and try to understand how he feels. Oliver sits up weakly and his eyes convey all the devastation that he probably doesn't know how to verbalize.

"We lost."

I hug him, cold fabric clinging to our wet skin. I finally turn the water off, and we're left like that in an attempt to gather warmth. I look at him, and put my hand on his cheek. 

"I'm here for you, Ollie." 

I may not completely feel like I would ever go to the lengths Oliver does, but I know what winning means to him. I know that he feels like he's let more than just himself down, and I know that he thinks that, to some extent, the loss is his fault. 

It takes a while for Oliver to finally say something.

"You should change. You'll catch a cold," he says. "I'll just stay here."

I'm adamant. I tell him that if he stays, I stay. Then I sneeze, and Oliver decides we need to leave the showers.

Oliver peels off his outer robes, and I cast a charm on both of us to help with the drying. I turn as he starts changing and I only realize he's done when he places a jumper over my shoulders. It's his favorite -- it's a warm, grey knit that he's had for a long time but didn't grow into until recently.

I put it on, and we leave together.

I look at Oliver, furrowed brow and all, as we walk to the Great Hall. I know that he's formulating plays and scheduling practices already, and that he's probably itching to write it all down. I hand him a quill and a small notebook, he gives me a grateful look. I feel a pang of  _something_ , something warm and sad all the same. I look away, but he grabs my hand and I have to pretend I'm not affected.

After Oliver and I have gotten to the Great Hall, I let him walk ahead of me. I look around, hoping to spot Terence. I want to congratulate him. Again.

When I finally do see him, he's with Adrian and Marcus. I stand behind Marcus and wave a little, not wanting to bother them but wanting Terence to see me. He does.

He stands and walks over to me, engulfing me in a big hug. "Thank you," he says.

"Higgs, you're supposed to say that after I congratulate you again."

He grins. "Then congratulate me."

I pretend to be sore about it, but tell him how happy I am for him anyway. His eyes are shining in the light, and I'm glad that some joy came out of the Gryffindor team's disappointment.


	9. Smaller Moments

Terence sits next to me in the library, staring at my Arithmancy book. He tells me that he doesn't understand, and I try not to giggle.

"Why are you looking for an Arithmancy tutor in the first place? You don't take it."

"I like maths and I like Divination..."

"I know that's not even half-true."

He and I continue our quiet back-and-forth about why he's actually asking for my services as a tutor, but someone behind us clears their throat. We both turn around, giving each other a look as we prepare to deal with an upset Madam Pince.

I'm not sure if who we see is actually worse.

Marcus Flint is glaring down at me, brow furrowed and all. He turns to Terence, who smiles at him. "We have practice, Higgs."

Terence stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. Marcus gives me a dirty look from behind him. "We're off, Eliza. Thank you, though."

I shake my head and put my Arithmancy book away. It's been a decent few weeks since the Slytherin-Gryffindor match, and I've been spending a lot of time with Terence. Oliver is rarely to be found, he's on the pitch so often, and Marcus Flint really doesn't like me.

Just last week, Ravenclaw won against Hufflepuff. The afterparty was one for the books. Robert and Wesley kissed for the first time as cheers erupted, and it was the sweetest thing to ever happen in the Ravenclaw common room. I hadn't noticed how close they were before.

Our win sent Oliver into a bit of a panic, as George told me that he quickly called the team for a meeting marked by yet another one of his terrible pep talks. As the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin match approaches, the Gryffindor team can always be found  _somewhere_ , going over more and more Quidditch. I don't remember seeing Oliver in any place but in our Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures classes, and even then he's half-occupied by his thoughts. 

As I leave the library, the Weasley twins skid to a halt in front of me. I check the time, and realize that they should be at Quidditch practice.

I ask them why they aren't, and they give each other a look that I can't decipher.

"It's a long story, really," George starts. He jams something into the pocket of his robe, and I catch his nervous glance sent Fred's way.

Fred grins at me, as if he's trying to distract me, and tugs on the shoulder of my robe. "Come with us to practice, Eliza!"

"Will I be welcome?"

"'Will I be welcome,' she says." Fred turns to George shaking his head. "Can you believe that, George?"

"Come now, Eliza. We can't be any later than we already are!"

That's how I find myself running down the Hogwarts halls with the twins. Fred and George have much longer legs than I do, and they arguably have had much more exercise than I have recently, so I struggle to keep up.

"Boys!"

They slow for just a moment, just for me to catch up. When I do, Fred grabs my hand and pulls me along until we get to the pitch. I'm panting.

When we get there, Oliver is waiting in front of the locker rooms. His arms are folded across his chest, and I don't have to look up at his face to see the stern look that must be painted across his features. I do anyway, and I see his eyes drop to my hand in Fred's. Fred takes notice and hastily releases his grasp.

I'm a bit baffled, but Fred and George seem to be in enough trouble as is. The twins run in to change into their Quidditch uniforms, and Oliver walks out to the green of the pitch with me.

"Are you staying?" Oliver asks. I'm looking at him, but he's not looking at me. I tell him I am, and he offers to fly me up to the stands on his broom. "I haven't seen you around, Eliza."

I run my fingers absentmindedly over a mended patch of his robes. "Yeah, it's been a while." I know why. It's because of his panic over the Ravenclaw win. I don't say it, though. There are dark circles under his eyes, which I know are from late nights spent on Quidditch plays.

Fred and George finally make it onto the pitch, and Fred yells a joke at me from where he is. Oliver looks confused, and I am confused, but I laugh anyway. I see Angelina exchange a look with Charlie.

I decide to take the time that the team takes running warm-ups to finish a gown design that Clarisse asked me for. I pull out my needle along with a collar that I'm detailing, and cast a sewing charm on it as I go over fabrics in a catalogue.

I've finished drawing a pattern for the bodice by the time the Gryffindors are done, and Oliver flies me down. He's given me one of his sweaters to wear, because it's sprinkling lightly, and I try not to pay attention to the faint scent that is so truly his.

But then I remind myself to appreciate the time that we're spending together right now, no matter how insignificant it seems, because moments with Oliver are painfully fleeting and hard to come by. Especially now. I'm starting to feel like I won't see him outside of class until we're both home for winter holiday.

We run together through the rain into the dryness of the Hogwarts corridors, and after a quick drying charm I start to tug off the sleeves of Oliver's thick brown sweater.

"No, keep it," he says. "It's cold."

"You don't want it back?" He shakes his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I've missed having you around all the time, Ollie."

He doesn't tell me that he'll see me more often. We both know that wouldn't be true, and we don't lie to each other. Instead, he tells me he's just glad he gets to see me in class. Even if we're never partnered for anything.

"What's your schedule like for the rest of the day?" he asks me. 

"I was going to run something to Clarisse, then Potions before dinner."

"I'll see you at dinner then?"

I nod. Oliver makes his way toward the Gryffindor Common Room, and I head to quickly drop off the collar I've been working on to Clarisse.

She asks how I've been, but I can't give her any  _real_  answer because I have to run straight to the dungeons for Potions. I feel quite bad about it, really. Elliott still insists that I need to get myself involved more in the productions, but I can't seem to fit myself in any other way than costumes-wise.

I stay just to see Holly try on her dress, but then I run out of the door and down into the dungeons. I make it there just in time, because as I dash through the open door of the Potions classroom, one of my Ravenclaw classmates rushes up right behind me and nearly gets the doors slammed in his face.

Cory gives me a look. "Where are you running from, Wilson?"

"Third floor of the castle," I say, face still warm from my small bit of running. Cory just shrugs. "Come on, we should go check on our potions from yesterday."

When I grab onto one of my cauldron handles, it slips slightly in my grip. Cory quickly steadies it for me until I can adjust my fingers, and I thank him. "My mum taught me not to ignore a lady in crisis." I roll my eyes at this, and we settle back onto our stools and prepare for Professor Snape's lesson.

As Professor Snape describes the colors our potions should be at this stage of the brewing process, I peer into my cauldron and feel satisfied with my potion thus far. Next to me, I hear Cory's sharp intake of breath every time Professor Snape adds a descriptor.

When we're left on our own for the rest of class to finish adding ingredients to our draught, I finish chopping and stirring before peering into Cory's cauldron. He hasn't made any progress, and his cut ingredients are still in a pile at the corner of his cutting board.

I understand why he hasn't done anything upon my first glance. Professor Snape said that the brew should look like a shimmering violet, froth lightly when stirred, and smell  _somewhat_  like treacle tart. Cory's is a sickly green, bubbling thickly, and nowhere  _near_  smelling like treacle tart.

I set my potion aside after I've finished with it for the day and set myself upon helping Cory fix his. He's told me many times (every time we start a potion, really) that his mother will truly send him a month of Howlers if he doesn't manage to maintain a seventy percent average on his daily grades. 

Together, Cory and I go down the potion recipe. He swears that he's been stirring in the right direction, and that he's even been carefully watching the time--to the minute, even. I go down the specifics of the potion, trying to decide at which point it would've turned the wrong color. If a potion's ever gone horribly wrong, the first thing to go is the color. Elliott once told me that the worst batch of Felix Felicis ever made in his year was a dark red color that reeked of a mandrake field.

I read the recipe for the third time slowly before I figure it out.

"Cory, how finely did you cut the root?"

He says a nearly inaudible, "I guess not finely enough." I flip to another page in the textbook addressing this mistake, and the frustrated Slytherin asks, "How much of a difference does it make?"

"Well, cutting root pieces too big will keep the spell from working properly on the potion as a whole because it throws off the proportions of the ingredients. It'd be like mixing in eggs with your flour for cake batter, but leaving the egg yolk in chunks within the dough." Cory reads the page that I've pointed out to him before proceeding. I spend the rest of class cleaning up our workspace as Cory works, furrowed brow and all.

Cory just barely manages to fix the potion for it to reach a passing level of Snape's satisfaction, but he's happy nonetheless. 

After class, before dinner, Sara and I are in our corner of the common room again. "Tell me honestly: what's Elliott's best production?"

"I don't know about best, but I really liked this one production he did in Muggle London the summer before his Seventh year." It's not that the pre-professional show he did as a sixteen-year-old boy is any better than the shows he's doing now, but there was something pleasing about knowing that he's good enough to succeed in either world. "It was a musical, actually. I had no idea he could  _really_  sing before then."

Sara lights up, putting down the book about glamorous glamour charms onto the floor. She doesn't tell anyone, but we all call Sara our songbird. Her voice is melodic and soft, and sometimes the boys will have her sing them to sleep in the common room. "You had no idea?"

"None at all! I actually think he sang terribly around the family on purpose while we were growing up."

"Humble Elliott," she says knowingly. "When do you think the time is right to choose your career? I feel like your brother had it down early. I can't even figure out which subjects to focus on for our OWLs next year."

I tell Sara that we have time. In the trend of wizarding careers and the decision of what we want to be, most Hogwarts students don't decide until they realize what NEWT-level classes they've made. Elliott is an outlier; no matter how amazingly he did in charms or transfiguration, he was always going to perform.

Sara continues to read her book, and I pull out my sketchbook. Her hair is gathered messily at the nape of her neck, but she smiles occasionally at whatever she's reading and it brightens the room around us.

I sketch her, and when I'm done I flip back to a sketch I did of Jake in the morning. Sara doesn't notice what I'm doing until I'm nearly done, and when she does, she tells me that I've been doing a lot more of it recently.

"Just getting back into the swing of things, I suppose."

At some point, Wesley and Robert come up together. They go up to their dorms for a bit, and when they come back down they ask us to walk to dinner with them. 

Wesley nudges me with his shoulder. "What are you doing for winter holiday, Eliza?"

I know that Wesley normally stays at school over the holidays. He told me once that he likes it better this way, because his parents are so overbearing that the holidays are harder to endure than the rest of the year. I'm doing the usual as well, which is going home to my family and spending an afternoon in London before Christmas. 

"I think Dad got the week off this year, and Elliott and I are going to try to see a Muggle film on Christmas Eve." Even though I already know, I ask him what his plans are.

I can tell that Wesley's intrigued by my movie tradition, but he responds to my question anyway. "Ah, well, I'm staying in this beauty of a castle for two weeks while everyone's away."

Robert overhears us and chuckles. "Isn't it a bit premature to be asking about Christmas? It's not for another month."

"Never too early to be excited for time off," I quip. 

When we get to the Great Hall, we find that we're the first ones there. We sit together, and not long after, our friends join us. I stare at the doors occasionally, taking note of who comes in. Both Terence and Oliver come in at the same time, and when I realize that I'm not sure where to look, I feel as if I've just been admonished.

I spend the rest of dinner focusing only on the conversation surrounding me and the roast on my plate.


End file.
